


can't find my sweet release

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Begging, Biting, Caretaking, Casual Sex, Consent Issues, Crying, Dildos, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Insomnia, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Rope Bondage, Strap-Ons, The Porn Is the Plot, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, ace subtype: sex favorable, brief sexual harassment, casual sex as insomnia treatment, fisting (a little bit), internalized ableism, jonathan sims has no sense of self preservation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Sometimes, when Jon can't sleep, the only thing that works is having sex. A chance encounter with a coworker in a shitty club may save the day.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 445
Kudos: 592





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-s1 au. Martin works at the library, Jon is in research (but still has low self esteem about work). 
> 
> CWs for sexual harassment/borderline assault by OMC, misgendering mention. terms for jon’s bits: vagina, breasts, cock. terms for martin’s: cock.
> 
> My original intention for this idea was a longer and more emotionally involved Martin-POV story about figuring out his sexuality now that he's at a stage in his transition where he's comfortable doing that, but the heart wanted smut, so smut it is. I still hope to write that other story later but it might be some time.

Cold wind cuts right through Jon's sleep shirt. His hoodie is open at the chest, courtesy of a broken zipper. Jon could clutch it more tightly around him, but honestly, that sounds like too much effort. He's focusing all of his ability to move on arriving at his destination.

There it is, a sign lit in dark red proclaiming the place to be The Den of Sin. If Jon were any less tired, he'd roll his eyes. It's a stupid name, but at least the place is effective for his purposes.

Number one consideration is the lack of dress code. He pays the guard at the entrance, who waves him in without a second look. Number two are the chairs, normal chairs and not barstools, so Jon can sit on them without risking falling off and getting a concussion to add to his list of problems.

It's not long before someone takes the chair next to him, which is consideration number three. People come here to get laid, and they're usually not picky about their partners. "Hello there, pretty," the man tells him.

Jon does not feel pretty. Jon feels disgusting and only vaguely human, which is to be expected after three weeks of barely any sleep. He doesn't try to smile at the guy, just says, "Hi."

"Buy you a drink?"

Jon shrugs. He doesn't like to add drunkenness to his general sleep-deprived dizziness in these situations. "A coke, no rum?"

The man frowns. "What kind of game are you playing?"

That's a bad sign, Jon knows this well enough. At this point, Jon should rise up and go sit somewhere else. But his legs feel like jelly, and all he wants to do is collapse somewhere warm. He shrugs again.

"You should answer when you're asked a question." The man's hand lands on his arm, gripping hard and bruising. "I asked if you wanted a drink. Are you going to say yes?"

Jon opens his mouth, and he has no idea what would have come out if someone hadn't interjected, "Is everything alright?"

"Just fine," the man says tersely.

"Sorry, you're not the one I'm asking. Jon, are you alright?"

At the use of his name, Jon blinks and turns. The guy behind him _is_ vaguely familiar, ginger hair and a bulky build: one of the people who work in the Institute library. He's fairly tall. Jon thinks he would have remembered him being this tall. Maybe his mind's just playing tricks with him. 

The man who had his hand on Jon's arm apparently decides this is too much trouble and disappears back into the crowd. "Sorry," the vaguely familiar guy says. "I, um, I hope I haven't interrupted..." his voice trails off, and his eyes drop to Jon's chest before jerking up again.

Oh. Right. Jon hadn't put his binder on before leaving the house, too tired to wrestle with it. It usually got someone to pick him up sooner, too. They'd misgender him, sometimes, but by that point he'd generally be too addled to care. Jon shrugs once more. 

The guy approaches with caution. "You look a little out of it," he says, tentative. "Do you need help getting home?"

Jon scowls. "No. I need someone to have forceful intercourse with me so I can _sleep_." His voice breaks a little on the last word, thick with longing.

"Oh!" The guy straightens up. "I'm sorry. I just, that guy seemed like bad news, y'know?"

"Probably, yes." Jon's very limited patience runs out. "Are you volunteering to have sex with me? If you're not, get out of my way."

The guy's eyes widen. "Um. Um! Is that-- uh, yes. Actually, I'd be happy to. Do that. With you."

Jon leans back and looks at him. A memory suddenly strikes: this guy, carrying heavy boxes full of books like they're nothing. "You'll do," he says. "Let's go." He stands up. Then he grabs onto the guy's arm, graciously offered, because he nearly pitches forward and falls onto the floor. 

He straightens and turns a glare onto the guy. “Not a word.” 

The guy raises his unoccupied arm. “Didn’t say anything!”

Jon nods with grim satisfaction, and sets about leaving.

* * *

"You do this sort of thing a lot?” asks the guy, whose name turned out to be Martin, as they enter Jon’s flat. 

“When I have to,” Jon says. 

“Just - you’re doing this because it helps you sleep? Have you tried chamomile tea?”

“I’ve tried everything.” Jon pushes through the bedroom door. “This works. Can we do this?”

“O--okay.” Maddeningly, Martin still stays away, hovering like an awkward apparition. “What do you like?”

“Intercourse,” Jon says, annoyed. “Anal or vaginal, either works.”

“Is there anywhere I shouldn’t touch, any, anything particular I should call your, uh, bits?”

“I literally don’t care as long as you just _get over here_ ,” Jon grits out, “and _fuck me_.”

Martin does come near, but all he does is sit on the bed next to Jon. With a firmness Jon wouldn’t have expected from him, he says, “I’m not doing anything unless I know it’s what you want.”

“I want to _sleep_ ,” Jon says, suddenly feeling every ounce of his exhaustion, so deep in it he could cry. 

“I know.” The sympathy in Martin’s voice makes the wanting to cry worsen. “Just a little bit more, yeah? Just tell me what works for you.”

With his last reserve of strength, Jon tries to think, to dive deep and consider. “I like attention to my chest and my dick. I genuinely don’t care what you call my body, just don’t call me a girl. Biting is good.”

“Okay,” Martin says softly. “For the record, I’d rather you just… not refer to my parts, okay?” He takes off his trousers. His briefs have a metal ring where a bulge would usually be, and Martin takes a toy out of his bag and slips it through the ring. “This is my cock. You can refer to that, if you want.” He frowns at it. “I’ve got a smaller one, if you like.”

“No,” Jon says, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s fine.” He eyes Martin’s cock with interest. He likes it. It matches the rest of him for size. 

Martin hikes up Jon’s sleep shirt. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine. _Please_.”

Martin covers him in a blanket anyway, and slides in next to him. He cups one of Jon’s breasts, giving it a little squeeze. Jon’s breath hitches. 

“Yeah?” Martin asks.

“Yeah. More.”

Martin nods. He scoots under the blanket and takes Jon’s other breast into his mouth, the entirety of it. Jon’s never been well endowed in that department, which was for the best. He can feel the pressure of Martin’s teeth around the edges of it, which sends a pang of arousal through him.

“Mm?” Martin says.

“Yes,” Jon says, out of breath suddenly, and then Martin bites down and Jon _yells_. “Yes, this, harder-- ah!” His thighs lock together, squirming. Martin bites down again, tongue teasing at the underside of Jon’s nipple. “Please, please, _ah_ , yes….”

Martin's hand finds his thigh and nudges it aside, rubbing against the soft skin inside. 

Jon squirms. "Come on, already!"

Martin's thick, blunt fingers pushing inside him are good, but not quite what Jon needs. He wriggles with impatience. Martin gives a breathless laugh. "Alright, alright."

The first breach of Martin's cock in him is a little odd, the way penetration always is after a while without. His body, despite clamouring for this, having a moment of _I'm supposed to do _what_ now?_ before accepting the intrusion. 

Martin stills, and Jon's, "Get going already," comes out not as a wail but as a reedy whimper. Arousal distracted him for a handful of moments, but now the crushing weight of fatigue is back. 

Martin kisses Jon's temple, which makes him freeze. It's just not something he expects. He doesn't have a script for this. "Just getting my bearings, alright? Here we go." 

And then he _goes_. 

Jon no longer has any idea what's happening. Martin's strength is moving him, rocking him like a tiny boat in a storm, and all he has to do - all he can do - is hang on. Martin's mouth settles hot on his neck and bites, which makes Jon convulse and draws a ragged moan from his throat. 

This, this is what Jon needs. Another body working against him, knowing that his partner is taking their pleasure with him, that Jon is doing a good job with something, finally. Martin’s got one hand curled around Jon’s thigh and another holding on to his shoulder, gentle but firm. He’s fucking him thoroughly, a perfect stretch, getting Jon deep inside where his own fingers can’t reach. 

All Jon has to do is close his eyes and take it.

His own orgasm takes him by surprise, and is kind of irrelevant besides, when he’s sinking deeper into a softness that he knows will turn into sleep if he just doesn’t ruin it. “Keep going,” he says, words coming out barely coherent. “It’s working. Don’t stop.”

Martin’s thumb runs sweetly over the back of Jon’s neck. Jon’s eyes are closing. His grasp on Martin slackens, but that’s okay. Martin has him. Martin’s still going, a steady rhythm that Jon can nod off to.

* * *

Jon wakes up, and Martin is still there. That’s… unusual. He’s already awake, as well, which leaves Jon painfully aware of just how bedraggled his own appearance is. It’s been some time since he’s had the energy to wash his hair, and he desperately needs to brush his teeth. 

Shit. This isn’t some stranger. This man knows where Jon _works_. What if he--

“Are you alright?” Martin’s voice is soft.

In a fit of maturity, Jon hides his face under the blanket. “I’m fine.”

“For some reason, that’s not very convincing,” Martin says, amused. “Seriously, though. Are you okay? Do you need anything? I could go make some tea, if you liked.”

“Tea,” Jon says. Tea will mean he will have time to gather his wits while Martin’s off messing with the kettle. “Yes, please do that.”

As the bedroom door shuts behind Martin, Jon removes the blanket to stare at the ceiling. He’s feeling _good_ , actually, his body singing the praises of decent sleep. He doesn’t even appear to have retained any aches and pains from the night before, save for where that arsehole grabbed him. 

He shakes his head, remembering that. Jon’s sense of self preservation tends to abandon him when he’s tired enough. Good thing Martin had come along. 

Right. Martin. Jon hurries through brushing his teeth, and he’s contemplating a shower when Martin calls him. There’s tea on Jon’s kitchen table, and to his surprise toast, too, and jam and butter. “What,” Jon says, slightly incredulous. 

Martin shrugs, sheepish. “I thought you should have something to eat. Most important meal of the day, and all!”

It’s at that point that Jon registered that Martin is fully dressed, bag in hand. He frowns. “You’re going?”

Martin fidgets. “Wouldn’t want to get in your hair, y’know?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jon says flatly, before he can think better of it. “You made me breakfast. You should at least eat with me.”

“Oh. Huh. Suppose it is kind of funny, isn’t it, if I don’t join you.” Despite these words, Martin sits down gingerly, like he expects someone to yell at him to leave at any moment.

Jon is halfway through his toast when Martin says, “So, how are you?”

“Well enough,” Jon says distractedly. Then he blinks. “Ah. You mean… well, last night has served its purpose.”

“I’m glad.” Martin hesitates, but then carries on firmly. “If you ever need that particular kind of help, please call me? Please.”

Jon blinks at him. “I generally attempt this fairly late at night.”

“That’s fine. Call me anyway.” A look Jon can’t decypher passes over his face. “I mean - obviously you don’t have to! If you have someone better to go to, by all means, do. But if anyone will do, well, I could do it, and you wouldn’t even have to leave the flat. Just call me.”

Jon tilts his head. That does sound enticing. But, “Why?” he says, eyes narrowed. “I’m well aware I’m not the most enjoyable bed partner.” His main advantage is being willing to put up with his partners being horrible, and Martin was not horrible. Not at all. 

“What?” Martin’s eyebrows knit together. “You were great. I had a lovely time, and I’ll happily do it again. So if you’re ever interested - yeah. I’ll give you my number.”

Jon nods, unlocks his phone and hands it over. He doesn’t understand Martin’s criteria for partners, but he’d long despaired of understanding what people desire in intimacy. It would be nice to do this with Martin again, he thinks. “Thank you for offering,” he says, low and stilted. 

Martin nods in return. “Well, I should probably get to work.”

It’s a clear dismissal, but, “We work in the same place,” Jon points out.

Martin turns pink. “Right! Right. Of course we could go together. Just, um. Didn’t want to presume.”

That’s ridiculous. Martin had fucked him magnificently and then made him breakfast. “Your company,” Jon says, “would be appreciated. I do want to shower first, so if you’re running late, there’s no need to wait for me.”

Martin just gives him a sunny, surprisingly sweet smile. “I’m good,” he says. “Go ahead and shower, I’ll rinse up the dishes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still not committing to writing this entire story out, but more bits may drop as they come to me. Watch this space. 
> 
> In this chapter: drinking alcohol, internalized kinkshaming, bondage mention, masturbation

"Martin?"

"Gah!" It's only by sheer luck that Martin keeps from throwing the book he's attempting to shelve at Tim. 

Tim raises his hands. "Sorry! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you, but you've been stood there with the book in your hand for five minutes now."

Martin hurriedly shoves the book into place. "Got distracted," he mumbles. 

"I'll say." Tim comes near and claps him on the shoulders. "And isn't it a bit late for you to be working?" Martin mumbles something about not noticing the passage of time. Tim nods decisively. "You look like you could use a break. Drinks?"

Martin hesitates. He's not great at making friends, though, and he's lucky that Tim has taken a liking to him. He doesn't want to endanger that. "Sure. Just let me finish up here."

* * *

"--third cup of coffee," Tim concludes his anecdote, to Martin's sniggering. "What about you? What were you up to yesterday?"

Martin blushes. "Got a strap-on," he confesses. "Took it out for a test drive."

Tim's eyes widen as he grins. "Martin! My man!" He claps him on the shoulder. "This calls for another round. Bartender!"

"Tim!" Martin hisses at him. He blinks at the empty glasses in front of him. "I think we've had enough for now, don't you think?"

"Nope," Tim says, cheerful as ever. Martin can't help but notice there seem to be half as many glasses in front of Tim as there are in front of him.

Suspicion dawns. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I am not," Tim says haughtily, then giggles. "I _did_ get you drunk. Successfully." He nudges Martin with his elbow. "Now spill. Details! Who was the lucky soul who got to ride your strap-on its debut journey? Oho!" he crows as Martin turns crimson. "This is interesting indeed."

Martin's just sober enough to protect Jon's privacy. "I met someone at the club," he says. "Some arsehole was giving him a hard time." He drops his head and mumbles, "He didn't seem too picky."

Tim claps him on the shoulder again, this time sympathetically. He finally catches the bartender's attention and retrieves two beers, despite Martin's consternation. "Any effect on your crush?"

Oh, God. Martin shuts his eyes. "Not really."

In a way, he supposes Tim is entitled to know this, given how much time he'd spent being a sympathetic ear for Martin to pour his troubles into. His long-reigning crush on Jon in particular, although Martin still clings to the polite fiction that Tim doesn't know who the object of his affections is. But if Martin thought his previous tendency to get lost in daydreams was bad, he had no idea. He did not account for the vivid intensity of sense memory interrupting at any time, reminding him of how Jon smelled, tasted, felt around his _fingers_ \--

"Martin!" Tim waves a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Martin, hello? Ah, here you are. Thank you for that demonstration." He gives Martin a commiserating sort of look. "Well, you've made an investment! Did you buy the one I recommended?"

Cheeks flaming, Martin nods.

Tim beams. "Excellent. I have one too, you know - zero complaints all around! Which size did you get?"

Giving up on dignity completely, Martin says, "Both." Tim nods judiciously. "Used the big one, though."

"Martin!" Tim exclaims with delight. "You rascal! Did he like it?"

He still has finger-sized bruises where Jon clung to him. He tries not to touch them too obviously. "Seemed like he did."

"Fantastic." Tim seems so pleased you'd think he'd orchestrated Martin's odd one night stand himself. "Outstanding. Here, drink, you hardly touched your beer."

Martin glares, but he drinks.

* * *

It’s a miracle he gets home without falling on his face, considering how drunk he is, but even so as soon as he’s in his bed he reaches down into his pants, shaking with urgency.

He hadn’t gotten off while Jon was awake, too focused on him, greedily gathering up every sensation to hoard it away. Once Jon had fallen asleep, it seemed weird to get off next to him. Creepy. Martin really, really doesn’t want to be creepy. 

But God. Jon. The _sounds_ he’d made, deep voice gone slurred and incoherent, the way his eyes had rolled in their sockets when he’d come. When Martin had _made_ him come, pushed him until he had no choice but to fall free. The desperation with which Jon had clutched him, like Martin was everything. 

Fuck. Martin draws in a much-needed breath and adjusts his position. It still feels a bit wrong, to fantasize about Jon. For as long as he’d had this crush, being near Jon had left him in a giddy cloud of arousal, but nothing he could channel into concrete imaginings more explicit than cuddling. His mind would refuse to subject Jon to such indignities.

Now, though, he has memories. And beyond the memories, glinting in the corner of his mind, Martin knows there’s more, dark and terrifying and thrilling. Things he would never actually do to anyone, things he shouldn’t even imagine, _can’t_ imagine, not properly. But they’re there in quick snatches: ropes around Jon’s slender wrists, Jon’s thighs pushed open, his face twisted in a combination of pleasure and anguish, tossing his head in the throes of what Martin does to him. 

Coming hits Martin hard, his pent up desire flaring almost painfully. He keeps going even as oversensitivity hits, not wanting to leave that space in his mind where he could do what he wanted with Jon. Where Jon was his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lalala still not committing to anything, but i have at least one more section lined up soooo we'll see.
> 
> In this chapter: anal sex, Jon having a very weird toxic mix of internalized aphobia and ableism, some oblique references to Jon's past encounters being Bad, blink and you miss it hint of D/s.

Jon’s bed is too damned big.

Back in uni, when he’d lived with Georgie, they’d had a giant cardboard box that had once housed a refrigerator in their tiny living room. Georgie had painted it as a sarcophagus. Jon used to find guilty pleasure in standing inside it, enclosed. On nights like this, he fervently misses that stupid box: the feeling of having _something_ around him, even if it’s not another living person.

Jon turns over and punches the pillow. He can’t seem to get comfortable. However he huddles in the blanket, some spot seems to let in the cold. 

It doesn’t help that he can’t stop _thinking_. The leads for the Peterson statement all seem to have vanished into thin air. Jon maybe shouldn’t care so much, given that the Peterson statement is cooked from wholesale nonsense, but he prides himself in doing a thorough job. 

Too thorough, maybe. In every performance review, the head researcher repeats that Jon does a very good job, but his assignments take too long. And Jon _tries_ , alright, he stays late and chugs disgusting energy drinks to stay focused. And then he goes home and, if he manages to fall asleep at all, spends his nights dreaming about missed leads, about the head researcher slamming a pile of papers on his desk and demanding how Jon could have failed to notice - whatever, something exceedingly blatant that only exists in the dream. 

It’s not _fair_ that Jon can’t sleep. Just two nights ago he’d nodded off like it was nothing, not a thought in his head as he’d drifted into sleep. What’s wrong with him that he needs _that_ to fall asleep?

(To be fair, those energy drinks probably don’t help.)

Jon won’t go out tonight. That’s preposterous. Sleep is tempting, but not yet so tempting that he’ll talk to a stranger to find it, nevermind the other things he’ll have to do with that stranger.

No. He’ll have a headache tomorrow, and his eyes and head will feel full of sand, but he’ll manage. He’s managed before, hadn’t he?

(Maybe if he slept better he’d do a better job. Maybe if he just loosened up and did what he had to to fall asleep, he wouldn’t be lagging like this.)

Jon scowls and sits up. Fine. If he’s not sleeping anyway, he may as well get some work done.

* * *

Jon’s re-reading the introduction to the concept of bestiaries for the third time, straining to find anything relevant to the latest statement, when he hears something crash behind him.

He turns around and it’s a startlingly familiar silhouette picking up books, a familiar face twisted up in sheepish, flushed embarrassment. Martin already has five thick tomes in one arm and he’s adding more with no appearance of effort. 

Jon swallows and looks back down, eyes fixed on the text which he suddenly can’t read.

* * *

For the rest of the day, he successfully distracts himself. But then he’s home, and it’s time to sleep, and he _can’t_. 

He’s not desperate enough to turn to strangers, but Martin isn’t exactly a stranger, is he? Jon knows where he works. Could have a word with Martin’s superiour, even, if Martin turned mean on him the way people sometimes did. Except he would never, because it would involve detailing the circumstances where he’d met Martin in his place of employment, and Jon would frankly rather die. 

Can people die of insomnia? Jon is reaching halfway to his phone before he remembers checking it is bad for sleep hygiene.

He hates sleep hygiene. He hates his stupid, irrational body, which has the temerity to not only require sleep but also refuse to provide it except in ridiculously contrived circumstances. Calling Martin would just encourage his body to further these bad habits by rewarding terrible behaviour. No.

* * *

On the next day, Jon sees Martin climb a ladder with one crate held under his arm like it’s nothing, then raise the crate high to place it on a top shelf. Martin’s wearing short sleeves, and Jon can see muscle under the soft thickness of his biceps. 

He does not call Martin that night.

* * *

He lasts a week before breaking and calling Martin.

At least Martin answers promptly. “Hello?”

Jon swallows. He’s made it this far. If he just hangs up-- no, no, better to speak up. “Hi. I, it’s Jon. From…” how does he follow that up? From work? From the Den of Sin? Hi, it’s the guy you fucked to sleep?

“Jon!” 

Jon blinks. Martin sounds… pleased? Some kind of positive emotion. 

Before he can think about more to say, Martin asks, “Are you doing alright? Do you need me to come over?”

“Yes,” Jon says, with gratitude. “Bring-- bring the--” He can’t bring himself to say the word _cock_ over the phone.

“I’ll bring the stuff from last time, sure,” Martin says. “Text me your address, I’ll give you an ETA.”

* * *

Martin should be here in half an hour, and Jon isn’t sure how to pass the time.

It’s just odd. He’d never invited his hookups home by _telephone_ , like some kind of depraved delivery. He considers tidying up, but can’t find the energy. His flat doesn’t look any worse than it did the last time Martin was here, and he’d heard no complaints then.

He could work, but that’s odd, isn’t it? Spending time while he’s anticipating sex and sleep working. He doubts he could concentrate anyway.

Perhaps some other form of preparation. He’d showered before going to bed, in another feeble attempt to help sleep along. Jon looks down at his sleep clothes, a band shirt he’d stolen from Georgie and tracksuit bottoms; a little unofficial, but it’s clean, devoid of holes, and fits right. He’s more put together than he was when Martin last met him out of work, certainly more than his usual standard when pursuing one night stands.

Well. There is one area he might attend to. It’s not something Jon does every time. Or most times, even. Often he’s too tired to bother. But it’s a good precaution to take, just in case.

* * *

When the doorbell rings, Jon’s hands are still cold from washing. He lets Martin in, and then hangs there in useless awkwardness. Usually, at this point he is single-minded enough not to be self-conscious. 

Martin clears his throat. “So, d’you want…?”

Irritation rises in Jon. This part, at least, is familiar. “I want to go to sleep. Let’s get that going.” He sheds his clothes as he walks to the bedroom, climbs atop the bed and lies on his back, legs spread.

“I really think you-- oh.” Martin stops in the doorway, eyes fixed on Jon’s lower region. “You… um. Do you want me to…?”

“Intercourse,” Jon says, emphasizing each syllable. “Vaginal or anal.” He leaves his _Get on with it_ unspoken.

Martin sits next to him on the bed again. It’s a little less frustrating than last time, at least. He can believe Martin will make him fall asleep soon, and he’s not as tired. “I just need to be clear on this,” Martin says. “I’ll do what I can to help, but not if it’s something you hate. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jon’s about to bite that he wouldn’t have offered if he’d hated it, but that’s not strictly true, is it? He’d done that and more before. “I’m not that desperate,” he says. “I don’t hate it.”

A complicated expression unfolds across Martin’s face, but he puts his hand on Jon’s thigh, which is progress. “I suppose we’ll see.”

He lowers his mouth to Jon’s chest, and his teeth close around the flesh of it, perfect blunt pressure. Jon wriggles. “Yes, keep going,” he says when it seems like Martin’s thinking of letting up. 

Soon Martin’s hand is between his thighs, Martin himself laid on his side next to Jon. “You can lie on top of me,” Jon says. “I won’t break.”

“Soon,” Martin says, and gently rubs his fingers down the cleft of Jon’s arse, where Jon is slick from his earlier preparations. Jon can’t help it: he twitches. “How does this feel?” Martin asks.

Jon is about to snap at him again, but there’s something different about Martin’s voice, some quality that makes Jon soften at the edges. “Odd,” Jon admits. “It feels better on penetration, though.”

Martin’s cheeks are flaming red, his pupils swallowing up the hazel of his eyes, but his expression remains unreadable to Jon. “Does it, now? I suppose we can try.” He fixes Jon with a look. “Keep telling me how it feels. If it hurts, or if you just don’t like it, I need to know.”

Breathless all of a sudden, Jon can only nod. Martin nods back and moves away to assemble his cock in place. 

Martin’s on top of him, just the head of his cock sinking into Jon’s arse, when he stops to check on Jon.

“I’m fine,” Jon says. “I’d be better if you-- oh,” he says, because Martin shifted a little and Jon’s hole _swallowed_ him, almost all of that nice big cock going where Jon needs it. 

“Oh,” Martin says as well, small and almost lost. Then he draws back, and pushes in again. He doesn’t ask Jon if he’s doing, presumably because Jon’s unsteady moans are answering for him. “Oh, you like this.”

That is… not wrong. Jon doesn’t know if he can outright say he wants this, there is definitely discomfort mixed in it, and usually a touch of danger as well. There’s no danger in Martin, though, and the discomfort takes second place to the stimulation that makes a low heat settle in his guts, a steady banked fire. 

Instead of answering, Jon hikes his legs up, giving Martin better leverage. He crosses his ankles behind Martin’s back and closes his eyes. 

He can still feel teeth marks on his chest. Martin’s thumb is rubbing his cock slowly, even as Martin’s cock pushes in and out relentlessly. “Thank you,” Jon says, tasting sleep. “Thank you.”

* * *

“Oh, you’re awake,” Martin says as Jon stumbles out of the bedroom in the morning. “I’m thinking we could have eggs, how do you like them?”

“Scrambled,” Jon says automatically. “But you’re the guest. I should be cooking.” He’s terrible at hospitality, but he knows that much.

Martin raises his eyebrows at him. “When’s the last time you cooked breakfast of your own volition?”

It’s too early to argue, and Jon is still too blissed out from a night of proper sleep. He slumps on the sofa and lets Martin do as he will. 

When they sit down to eat, though, something happens. Jon has no idea what, but Martin looks at him, and suddenly he looks awfully sad. “Martin? What’s wrong?”

Martin blurts out, “You’ve been doing this every week?” He seems horrified, either with the idea itself or with having asked that.

Jon’s face heats. “No! I. I just.” He casts his eyes down and frantically tries to conjure an explanation. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice is gentle, and it loosens something in him.

Jon shivers. “Usually I wait a few months, until it gets really bad,” he confesses. “But - it felt safe, to call you. You made me feel safe. You made me feel good, too,” he adds, for completeness sake.

For a long moment, Martin is silent. Jon risks darting a glance at him, and his gaze sticks.

Martin is smiling, open and honest. His eyes fall on Jon, warm and benevolent like summer sun; Jon shivers again, even though that makes no sense. “So, thank you,” Jon concludes ineffectually.

“My pleasure,” Martin says, low and soft, like he really means it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for CWs!

When he first sees Martin come through the door to the research department, Jon freezes, heart pounding. Is Martin going to come to him and start chatting like they're old friends? How could Jon explain that to his co-workers?

Jon's considering ignoring Martin until he goes away versus making it vocally known that he has no idea who Martin is or what he wants when Martin walks in and completely bypasses Jon's desk in favor of Tim's.

Oh. Jon blinks. Martin could be friends with Tim, he supposes. Tim has many friends. Even Jon is his friend, after a fashion, and they do work at the same place. Why not Martin?

A minute later Tim approaches, brightening as he sees Martin. "There you are! Thought you'd bailed out on me."

Martin blushes. "I wouldn't do that."

"See that you don't," Tim says cheerfully, linking his arm in Martin's as they leave. 

Jon startles at a sudden snapping sound, only to realize the pencil he's been holding broke in his grip. He tightens his mouth and discards the remains of the pencil. True, it's early, but Tim's lax work ethic is no business of his, nor is Martin's. He goes back to work.

He manages five minutes of staring at his work before he realizes he'd just been reading the same sentence over and over. He scowls and looks away. 

Tim is a flirt, is the thing. Tim could successfully flirt with a rock. Martin, in Jon's experience, is responsive. If they got together… Well, it would be no concern of Jon's. 

Except… What if Martin liked Tim better? That's an easy concept to imagine, so much so that it's bordering on inevitable. What if the next time he calls Martin he'll be answered with polite refusal, or not answered at all, left to listen to the dial tone as sleep deprivation spins everything into the worst possible form around him? 

Jon grinds his teeth. No. He can't let that happen. He'll have to think of something.

* * *

Jon’s a thorough researcher. It’s what he does. So now that he has a new goal, it’s clear that the first step to pursuing it is to do review the available sources.

The goal, obviously, is to make sure Martin keeps coming over when Jon needs his assistance. To this end, Jon needs to make himself as agreeable a partner as he can be. 

Googling "how to keep a man interested" yields a variety of extremely heteronormative articles. Jon wrinkles his nose while going through them. Many suggest that he make his partner feel like a man: what does that even _mean_? Are they implying that heterosexual people regularly misgender their partners? A lot of the articles aren’t relevant, anyway, assuming a more steady or romantic arrangement than what he and Martin have. 

Still, he’s confident in his ability to come up with some helpful tips.

* * *

Jon is doomed. 

It’s been three hours since Tim and Martin have left. Surely Tim is enjoying Martin’s superb topping skills at this very moment. 

Jon paces his flat, trying not to tear his hair out. He yanks on it a bit too hard anyway, making his eyes tear up with the sharp pain of it. Pity Martin isn’t one of the ones who like to make him cry. He can do that well enough, and it’s enough of a niche that Jon doesn’t feel hopelessly outclassed by any other potential partner.

A thought strikes. Jon stills, and reaches for his phone. The thought hasn’t yet fully formed, but he’s certain it’s better to call now than wait for Tim and Martin to be entwined in a lover’s embrace.

* * *

Martin answers promptly, to Jon’s intense relief. He says he’ll take a bit longer to arrive. Jon considers him in Tim’s place, post coital, and shakes off the mental image. It doesn’t matter so long as Jon will be able to sleep tonight.

At any rate, Tim will not be the one enjoying a Martin-made breakfast, so Jon has that much going for him. 

Martin arrives in the same clothes he’d worn to work, and when Jon comes close, only smells like cheap beer. It’s viscerally satisfying for reasons Jon summarily ignores. “Let’s go to bed,” he says, almost bouncing on his heels.

Martin’s face crinkles in a smile. “Glad to see you’re enthusiastic about it.”

Jon doesn’t have a good response for that. He takes Martin’s hand and leads him to the bedroom, where he undresses. He considers undressing Martin, but so far Martin has kept almost all of his clothes on. Jon doesn’t want to accidentally make him dysphoric. 

Instead, he lies down on the bed. He hadn’t prepared himself today, too caught up in his magnificent idea, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. As he usually does, he lies down on the bed next to Jon, running his hands over Jon’s body. He’s got his cock on already; how efficient. 

It’s good. Jon’s eyes want to close; his mind wants to surrender to that touch, to feel himself unravel until the knots of him are nothing but straightforward thread. 

With effort, he gathers himself. Tonight isn’t about him, tonight is about convincing Martin to keep coming. 

At first he wasn’t certain what exactly he wanted to do. He’d considered many acts his previous one night stands requested or demanded of him, and discarded many as irrelevant - whether due to lack of equipment, an excess of messiness, or too much personal distaste, which he thought might spook Martin rather than capture his interest.

What he wound up deciding on was simple, almost basic, and startlingly common. And so, Jon takes Martin’s roving hand, places both his own wrists into Martin’s broad palm, and takes them back to the bed so that Martin is pinning Jon’s hands to the mattress above his head.

Martin freezes.

For the longest moment, Jon considers that he might have messed up. Maybe Martin doesn’t like this after all.

Then Martin drags in a huge breath and puts some of his weight into pinning Jon down. Instinctively, Jon wriggles; Martin’s grip clamps harder.

“You,” Martin says, voice gone low and thick, and he bows his head to set his teeth in the flesh of Jon’s shoulder and _bite_. 

Jon makes a noise at that, can’t help it, high and thin as Martin’s other hand pushes his thigh to the side. Jon’s eager enough to spread his legs and give Martin access, and tries to thrust up, to get Martin inside him already. 

Martin’s grip on his thigh changes into pinning that down as well, as firm as iron. “You’ll have it when I’ll let you have it.” His accent’s more pronounced like this, and it makes Jon shiver. 

“Please,” Jon whispers. 

Martin gives a full-body shudder and groans. He still doesn’t let Jon move, his hold tightening every time Jon so much as shifts in place; but there’s no need, because now Martin is moving inside him, as hard and deep as Jon could want.

It’s everything Jon could have wanted, closeness and satisfaction and arousal, and he’s rocked off to sleep in a haze of triumphant bliss.

* * *

He wakes up, and Martin is gone.

* * *

In his flat, Martin sits on the sofa, curled as tightly as he can manage, holding a silent phone.

Tim won’t see his message. He’s probably asleep. Just because Martin is some kind of _freak_ isn’t reason to wake him up. 

And yet, against all reason, his phone rings. 

“Martin?” Tim says, when Martin picks up. And again, “Martin?” this time rather more alarmed as Martin starts crying.

“I didn’t mean to,” are the first words he manages to force out.

“Martin.” Tim sounds serious, but also kind. “Is anyone dead?”

That surprises Martin enough to stop him crying. “No!”

“In hospital? Are you in jail?”

“No. No, I’m home.” He gulps in a deep breath. “But I hurt him.” 

“Your mysterious three night stand?”

Martin nods miserably, remembers Tim can’t see him, then says, “Yes.”

Tim inhales. “And what, just left him there and booked it home? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Martin closes his eyes. “He fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake him up. I was scared I’ll do worse.”

“You’re going to have to give me some details, here,” Tim says, coaxing. “Are we talking physical injury, here? What kind? I’ve heard about all kinds of stuff. I’m not easily shocked.”

“Right.” Martin forces himself to take a breath. “We were in bed, and I held him down, and I, um, fucked him.” No, that doesn’t explain it. “I forced him to stay still. I wouldn’t let him move away.”

There is silence. Then, very carefully, Tim asks, “Did he try? Or was he very still?”

“Um.” Even now, Martin blushes. “He was kind of wriggling? He kept pushing up.”

“Just so I’m clear. He started moving away, and then you grabbed him?” Tim’s voice has no expression whatsoever.

“Well. He kind of - he put his wrists into my hand and then pushed it down on the bed, I don’t know if that makes sense. And then he started squirming, and I don’t know why but I just pinned him hard. I wasn’t thinking. I know it’s fucked up of me.”

A moment of silence passes. Then Tim says, “He did _what_?” He listens halfway through Martin’s stammered repetition of his explanation before jumping in to say, “Okay, no. Somebody here needs to apologize, and it’s not you.”

Martin freezes, blinking into the darkness. “What?”

“He tried to get you to have kinky sex with him,” Tim says. “You didn’t make him do anything. He sprung kinky stuff on you in the middle of the action, and that’s not okay.”

The sound of Martin’s shallow breaths feels weirdly loud. His mind rearranges itself around what Tim just said. “But what if he did want me to stop, after?” he asks. “He could’ve changed his mind.”

“Did he say anything? _No, stop_ , anything like that?”

Martin pauses. “He said, _please_.”

“Right. So I’m thinking he could have just as easily said _no_.”

“Sometimes people can’t.” Martin shouldn’t be getting off this lightly. “You said so yourself, sometimes people freeze. He could have meant _please stop_.”

Tim groans. “Fine, I guess. Maybe. But that’s one reason you have to talk about these things in advance. If he didn’t - well, sucks to be him, but I don’t see how that’s your fault.”

Martin cringes. “I could have said no. Stopped him.”

“Maybe you could’ve, but at this point it honestly doesn’t sound like anything bad _happened_ to him for you to be so worried about.” 

Suddenly, Martin is acutely aware of the time. “Oh, shit, I’ve been keeping you up.”

“Hey, no,” Tim says, but it’s undercut by a yawn. “Shit, sorry. I can stay up if you need me, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m fine. Really. Thanks, Tim, you helped a lot.” Martin speaks quickly over Tim’s protestations. “Good night!” He hangs up. He waits a few seconds, but his phone doesn’t ring again.

Martin lies back and brings up his phone, opening the trans sex ed forum he’d found a few nights before, in his frantic search for answers.

 _There’s nothing wrong with being into anal_ , one commenter had said. The one beneath her added, _But there’s some dudes who are definitely weird about it. They like it because it hurts their partner, or because it’s degrading._

He lets the phone drop on his chest and stares blankly upwards. Tim might not have been so quick to absolve Martin of all guilt if he’d known that little tidbit, too. But Jon had offered that, as well: it hadn’t even been Martin’s idea. 

But Jon clearly did things he hated often, in the name of getting to sleep.

Martin keeps staring. He doubts he’ll be getting any sleep himself tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledging this as a WIP if only because this segment ends on a sad, unresolved note, and I will definitely not be leaving it this way. There's also some heavier topics in this chapter, including:
> 
> \- Martin's internalized kinkshaming dialed up to 11  
> \- Jon doing bad consent things (without realizing that's what he's doing)  
> \- in general, bad communication and weird consent dynamics
> 
> but also including  
> \- extremely tame kink
> 
> ETA, please note: this fic is a bit messy and experimental on the consent protocols. I'm writing characters who have no idea what they're doing and no truly reliable sources to turn for. also i'm very tired. so bear that in mind when reading.


	5. Chapter 5

After three days, Jon heavily suspects Martin is avoiding him. Up until now he’d never realized how often he’d see Martin just doing his work around the library. Now it’s as though he’s vanished.

Jon removes his hand from his mouth to make himself stop biting his thumbnail. It’s a bad habit. He considers what sources he could use to figure out this latest development. He comes up with no ideas. What’s he meant to do, Google _why won’t my former bed partner talk to me_?

But the alternative is to let Martin go. To cling by his fingernails to self-discipline until it falls apart and he hits the clubs again.

Jon tries to buck up. Was it really that bad? He’d survived this far, hadn’t he?

“Looking awfully grim,” Tim says cheerfully as he passes Jon’s desk. “Everything alright?” He frowns at Jon’s resulting expression. “I’ll take that as a no. Yikes.”

For a moment, all Jon can feel is resentful fury. If Tim hadn’t taken Martin out, hadn’t shown himself as a far superiour option in both attractiveness and experience… 

Experience. Right. “A social issue. You… have a way with people.” Jon shakes his head. “Perhaps you’d be able to offer advice?”

“Sure thing.” Tim snags a nearby chair and sits on it, his chest to the chair’s back. “Talk to me.”

Jon hesitates. He can’t give exact details; surely that would risk a sexual harassment lawsuit. “I have… a friend,” he says, halting. He’s half expecting Tim to make a witty remark on Jon’s social skills, or lack thereof, but Tim only nods attentively. “He was visiting, and I wanted him to have a good time, so I suggested an activity I thought he’d like.” There. That’s true enough, isn’t it? “He participated enthusiastically, but he left afterwards and hadn’t spoken to me since.”

Tim tilts his head, looking thoughtful. “Well, that’s not great, leaving without a word like that. If he didn’t like it, he could have said something.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But I can’t tell you what you friend was thinking, only he can do that. You said you haven’t talked - you mean he’s been dodging your calls?”

“Something like that,” Jon mutters.

“Maybe send him a message. Say you want to talk about it. Be honest. That’s all I have for you.” He spreads his hands. 

Slowly, Jon nods. “I’ll try that. Thank you, Tim.”

“No problem.” Tim grins. “Although if you want to pay me back, there’s some references I need to chase down for the Shipton statement….”

* * *

Jon spends over an hour drafting the message he sends Martin.

On the positive side, Martin calls him within five minutes of having sent it. On the less positive, the first thing he says when Jon accepts the call is, “Jon? What the fuck?”

Jon cringes, mentally reviewing the message he’d sent. He’s not sure what about it would have garnered this reaction. He defaults to repeating himself: “I gather that you didn’t appreciate our activities last time. I would like for you to continue helping me with this, and so I have a vested interest in you enjoying yourself as much as possible. I’d like to ask you how that could be achieved.”

Martin’s laughter is high-pitched, and it doesn’t sound like he’s enjoying himself right now. Jon bites his lip. Martin says, “Christ. I don’t even know where to start with this.”

“I suppose I’ve done something wrong,” Jon says. After a moment of silence on the other end of the line, he adds, “Perhaps you could tell me what it was.”

The noise Martin makes in return is downright upset, and Jon flinches. He doesn’t have the best track record with relationships, inasmuch as his arrangement with Martin merits the title, but normally it takes even him a bit longer to muck it up. 

“I don’t know how to explain it over the phone,” Martin says, and makes another upset noise. “I don’t know if I can explain it at all.”

Jon’s heart thumps painfully hard in his chest. “Then you don’t want me to keep calling you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Martin’s voice softens. “You need to sleep, and you need to be safe.” He sighs. “The question is, how to make sure you can be safe with me.”

Jon blinks. “What?” When Martin doesn’t immediately reply, he elaborates. “You’re the safest option I have.”

“I know,” Martin says, sounding anguished. “That’s what’s so horrible about it.”

Jon’s heart sinks. “Horrible?” The word comes out quieter than he’d meant for it to be.

“Not like that,” Martin immediately says. “Not you, not, not being with you. Just - horrible _for_ you, I suppose. That those are the choices you have.”

That makes Jon’s hackles rise. “I don’t need pity,” he snaps. 

Martin sighs again, sounding weary. “Trust me, it’s not pity. I just…” He takes a breath, “I worry. That’s all.”

_Stop worrying, come over here and fuck me,_ Jon doesn’t say, because he can recognize that won’t go over well. He tries looking back on the conversation. “You said you can’t explain over the phone. Will coming over here help?”

For a long moment Martin doesn’t answer. Then he exhales and says, “I suppose I might as well.”

* * *

It’s a bit weird to have Martin come over for purposes that aren’t “fuck Jon to sleep”. Jon’s a grown man, he can have a civil conversation, but it’s odd. His body has already been wired to expect certain actions once Martin comes in. When he walks past Jon to get to the sofa, Jon catches a whiff of his scent, and has to remind himself that it’s not a good time to take his clothes off. 

Martin wedges himself on the farthest corner of the sofa from where Jon is standing, looking at him like an unexploded landmine. 

Jon lets out a breath and tries to be reasonable. “Alright. So last time, something happened, and it was bad. This is correct?”

Slowly, Martin nods. 

“And it had to do with me trying to, ah, spice up the proceedings.”

That makes Martin bury his face in his hands. “You sound like an issue of Cosmo.”

Articles from the online Cosmopolitan magazine have in fact featured in Jon’s research, but he decides not to mention that. "Of course that if you prefer, I won't do that again."

Martin raises his head to give Jon a skeptic look. "Define _that_."

"Sexual acts beyond what we've done in previous encounters." 

That gets Martin to stand up and start pacing. "You're not getting it."

"You're correct, I'm not. I would very much like an explanation." Jon tries not to sound frantic, and worries he comes across as snippy instead. 

"It's not you I'm worried about." Martin pauses in his pacing. "In general, I'm told you're supposed to ask before you do that stuff. Not just start doing it."

None of Jon's past casual partners have done that, which he supposes is evidence in Martin's favor. "Alright, I won't."

"Thank you. But like I said, you're not the one I'm worried about, here."

Then it stands to reason that Martin must be worried about himself, which makes no sense. "Why? You've been," he considers, "very agreeable."

"Compared to that arsehole from the club, sure, I'm a model of gentlemanly behaviour. Please." He stops his pacing, eyes intent on Jon. "Listen to me. I could have asked you to stop after you did that thing with the pinning. But I didn't. I didn't want to. I took it further, maybe not where you wanted me to. And that scares the shit out of me."

Jon bites down his instinctive retort to give Martin's word proper consideration. Martin had not hurt him, true, but the loss of control his words suggested sounded terrifying. 

Martin is still talking. "I don't want to be that guy, you know? The one who says he," he air-quotes, "can't help himself. That's bullshit. It's just that I'm not used to this, I guess?" He reddens. "But you don't want to hear my life story. Sorry."

Jon leans forward. "Of course I do. It's information we could use to make sense of this."

This makes Martin's flush deepen. "You don't have to. Or you shouldn't have to."

Jon doesn't see what _should_ has to do with this. "Yes, because my other options are so appealing."

Martin hunches, and Jon bites his tongue. Before he can try and apologize, Martin abruptly says, "I guess I don't have a lot of experience with this, this kind of intimacy." He's approaching tomatohood. "So when anything happens it's - a lot. In a good way! Mostly. Um."

Jon tries to go through that sentence and figure out what the hell it means. "You were a virgin before?" he says, doubtfully.

"No! No." Martin flops back down on the sofa. "I've never been on top, though. I've had sex, but it was years ago, when everyone still thought I was a woman. I honestly don't remember much. Barely felt like it was me in there."

It’s never been that way for Jon, but he can imagine it all too easily. He hunches a little where he sits. 

Martin continues. “So now everything is really intense, and I don’t know what I’m doing, and the things I think about are things I shouldn’t ever do--”

“Like what?” Jon asks.

Martin stares at him wide-eyed. “Um?”

“What is it that you want that’s so horrible?” 

Martin blinks quickly, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

“I mean, do you want to murder me? Maim me?” Jon presses.

At last, Martin finds some words. “No! Of course not. God, no.”

“Okay, then what?” Jon casts for memories. “Choke me?” Martin pales and shrinks on himself. “Piss on me?” Martin looks appalled. “Tie me up?” Ah. That makes Martin’s blush return. “Alright, that’s fine. You can do that. Cut me with a knife?” That brings Martin back to looking like he’s about to cry. Just as well, Jon was not a fan of that encounter. 

An idea strikes. Jon takes up his phone. “I think I’ve seen a list somewhere,” he explains as he looks it up again. “Of stuff people can do. We can look up what you like, and I can tell you it’s fine.”

“What if it’s not fine?” Martin says, strangled. 

Jon shrugs. “I’ll figure something out.” As long as Martin doesn’t try to set him on fire, Jon is sure he can cope, and he doubts Martin has the stomach for that. 

When Jon produces the list, Martin looks doubtful. “That looks like a purity test I did in year eleven.”

“Yes, well, it can still be used as a tool,” Jon says, aware he’s snippy but unable to hold it back. “Just give it a try.” He lets out a breath and tries to remember his manners. “Please?” He darts a look up and sees Martin hurriedly shutting his mouth. “I think we can mark down begging as a yes.”

“Oh God.” Martin buries his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiterating a disclaimer added in the last chapter: this fic is a bit messy and experimental on the consent protocols. I'm writing characters who have no idea what they're doing and no truly reliable sources to turn for. please bear that in mind when reading.
> 
> In this chapter:   
> \- mentions of   
>  \+ dysphoria  
>  \+ dissociation  
>  \+ past abuse and dubcon, mentioned flippantly  
> \- some communication and negotiation, fucking finally


	6. Chapter 6

Jon clicks his pen and looks down at the so-called kink checklist. He'd gone and printed the rotten thing. "So the next item is--"

Martin forestalls him with a raised hand. "Don't. Okay?" He'd been see-sawing between horror and arousal for the last hour, and he's exhausted. "Let's just… call it a day."

Jon frowns, but he nods. "Alright. I suppose we have enough to be getting on with."

"Getting on what," Martin says, too tired to make it a proper question. 

"Explaining to you why it's fine," Jon says. "Like I said I would."

Martin's half-shut eyes snap open. "Excuse me?"

Jon looks at him, still frowning, chin tilted haughtily up. "There's nothing in there I can't take."

Martin splutters. "Most of that you _shouldn't have to take_. From anyone."

Jon's eyes narrow. "I don't see how that's your decision to make."

"Well, it's my bloody decision what I do!"

Jon looks like he wants a hard surface to bang his head on, which Martin can relate to. "So what are you going to do?" Jon asks, deeply frustrated. "Keep avoiding me?"

The option feels very tempting at the moment, but Martin rises past that. He tries to think it through. 

If he hurts Jon - really hurts him, has to see Jon flinching from him in fear - Martin will lose it, well and truly. He can't bear that option.

If he stops having sex with Jon, then he'll have to see Jon come into work every day, furtively scanning him for bruises or worse, dreading a day when Jon may not come to work at all. That's also unbearable. It was a good thing Jon called when he did, because otherwise Martin would have caved and called him first. 

No. There's just one option, and it's clear enough. "Let's stick to what we did the first time," Martin says firmly. "That was alright, nothing wrong with it."

Jon looks sceptical, but he doesn't argue. "Fine."

They sit in silence for another moment, and Martin feels exceedingly silly. "I suppose I better get going then." To his surprise, Jon looks crestfallen. "What is it?"

"Oh. I thought, since you're already here, we could have sex? Of course, if you'd rather go home that's fine." Jon's eyes are pleading, though. Jon has such unfairly pretty eyes.

Martin folds, only to realize the next moment, "I haven't got my cock with me."

Jon blinks, but to Martin's surprise, doesn't look put out, only embarrassed. "Um."

Martin raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I have an idea but it was one of the things on the list," Jon says in a rush. "But we've done similar things before, so I don't think it counts as new exactly? But I don't want to be pushy."

Martin sighs. "Might as well hear it. What's your idea?" 

"I have a toy, for penetration." Jon's eyes are on him, slightly anxious. "I'm not sure it would be as good for you, since I don't have a harness, but you said that you liked the idea of toys when it came up on the list. And you fucked me using a toy before, so that's not so different." 

Martin weakly leans back against the sofa. "I suppose you're right," he says, mouth dry just from the idea of Jon owning a sex toy. It wouldn't do any harm to use it on Jon, would it?

* * *

"No fucking way," Martin says, eyes fixed on the monster Jon unearthed from his bedside drawer. "That won't _fit_."

Jon, with a stubborn set to his jaw, says, "I've taken it before."

The image of it hijacks Martin's brain, painting a vivid picture of Jon straining to take this thing into himself. He tries to shake it off. "It's thicker than your wrist!"

"I've taken bigger things."

Martin boggles at him. "And you enjoyed it?"

Jon shifts. "Well. Not the significantly bigger things," he reluctantly admits. "This is still in the range I can comfortably use." 

"Comfortably," Martin repeats, disbelieving.

"Fine, not comfortably. But… pleasurably, I suppose, in the end." Jon looks extremely uncomfortable right now. 

"What if I just used my fingers?" Martin says.

"Oh." Jon deflates. "I suppose you could do that, if you preferred." He reaches down to take off his shirt. 

Was that disappointment? Martin tries again. "Would you prefer I used the toy?"

"Either option." But once the shirt is off him, Jon quietly says, “I find that fingers are less effective, overall, for my needs.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Martin should just say no. What if he makes Jon _cry_? (The twist in his gut at the thought isn’t entirely unpleasant, but Martin shoves that down. He doesn’t have time to hate himself at the moment.) He made a decision, and now he should stick to it. Pure and simple. 

Then he looks at Jon, and his convictions collapse like a cardboard kettle. “Oh, alright. If it’s more effective.”

“Thank you.” Jon is now struggling to take off his binder. 

It brings back memories. "These are the worst, aren't they? Do you want a hand?"

Jon pauses, then nods. He lifts his hands up and lets Martin pull the tight material off him. It's a bit of a struggle, but they make it work. Martin hands the binder to Jon to put away, staring at his back, the darker marks on his ribs where the binder pressed in. Without thinking, he bends to press a kiss to one of those, on the curve of Jon's ribcage. 

Jon goes very, very still. 

Martin jumps away as if scalded. "Sorry! Sorry, should have asked. Are you--?"

"Could you do that again?" Jon says, voice uncertain. 

"Oh. Sure." Martin sits on the edge of the bed, cautiously putting his hands on Jon's hips. "Is that okay?"

"It's fine." Jon's voice has an odd hitch to it. He makes a tiny little sound when Martin kisses him in the middle of his back, at the dip of his spine. He keeps making that sound as Martin kisses his way up to his nape.

"Come on," Martin says, feeling inexplicably tender. "Let's get you seen to, yeah?"

It's not hard to take off the rest of Jon's clothes, even with him lying down. They wind up with Martin spooning him, kissing his nape and running a gentle hand over his inner thigh. Jon makes a soft wanting sound. 

Martin's testing finger finds Jon plenty wet. He takes the toy, heart beating fast with a mix of arousal and fear. Martin could still say no. He could stop this if he needed to. 

He doesn't stop.

Neither does he go and shove the toy into Jon, though. He teases the tip of it over Jon's entrance and his dick until Jon's squirming takes on an impatient note, and then only puts the lightest pressure. 

Jon lets out a shaky breath. "Go on," he says. "I can take it."

A part of Martin wants to keep teasing until Jon asks for what he wants, but the memory of Jon making a checkmark next to the box labeled "begging" gives him pause. "Fingers first, maybe? It looks like a lot."

Grudgingly, Jon nods. 

Jon is tight around his fingers. Fuck. It makes Martin ache, in want and in sympathy. He takes his fingers out to play a little with Jon's dick. 

Jon accepts this for less than a minute before squirming again.

Martin laughs quietly. "Alright, alright." He puts his fingers back in, three of them this time. Makes slight in-and-out movements, caressing Jon deep inside. He kisses the back of Jon's neck again, nuzzling into his hairline, and Jon opens around him just like that. 

For just a minute, he rubs the tip of his little finger against the rim of Jon's entrance, pushing it inside to test the stretch. Jon takes in with only a ragged exhale to mark the intrusion. 

Jon is limp all over, his weight fully leant on Martin. When Martin takes the toy again and starts pushing it in, Jon barely moves except to let out a long, low moan. 

It's about halfway in when the easy slide of the toy stops, so Martin eases it partway out to fuck it back inside. He does this a few times, until Jon shifts and mutters, "More."

"Can you take it?" Martin's voice sounds unaccountably solemn to his own ears.

"I can," Jon answers, just as gravely, and Martin pushes in again.

It's slow going. Martin will only push so far each time before retreating, making Jon huff in frustration. "Please," Jon finally says. "Please give it to me. I need it."

Martin's brain whites out for a moment. He comes back to his senses a moment later and guides the toy into Jon with more force than he'd dared to use before. One long, slow, merciless glide, until the base of the toy is all that's left visible. Martin's other hand runs, shaking, over Jon's belly. For an insane moment he wonders if he'll be able to feel the toy from the outside.

"Just a little bit more." Jon's voice is slurring. "Almost there."

Martin moves the toy in tight little thrusts, grinding deep, and soon enough Jon is twitching and crying out. Martin keeps kissing his neck. It feels too good to stop.

Jon is truly dead weight now. Martin should take out the toy so Jon can sleep.

Instead, Martin's arms tighten around Jon minutely. He noses Jon's hair, smelling shampoo. He'll take care of the toy in a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- extra large sex toy  
> \- Martin having some anguish  
> \- more hints of Jon's horrifying history


	7. Chapter 7

The next time Jon calls, Martin is in the middle of washing dishes. He hurries to answer the phone, hands still dripping, before the last notes of his ringtone fade away. “Yeah?”

“Hello. This is Jon.” He always introduces himself, as if anyone else calls Martin. To be fair, it’s doubtful Jon knows that. “Would you like to come over?”

Martin glances around his flat, the messy, cramped confines of it that no one else has seen since he moved in, and says, “Sure.” He looks guiltily at his sink, still halfway full of dirty dishes. “Might take me a bit more time, though.”

“That’s fine,” Jon allows. “Thank you.” He hangs up without another word.

* * *

“It’s open,” Jon calls, and Martin lets himself inside.

He takes a minute to appreciate the sight Jon makes, sprawled out on the sofa in an ancient t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, hair loose. All of him looks unimaginably soft to touch.

Jon, for once, doesn’t rush him. He’s staring at the TV. Martin follows his gaze to see a woman in a lab coat, and then CGI images of DNA strands. “Anything interesting?” Martin asks.

“Oh, rather,” Jon says, still looking. 

Martin has a funny feeling in the base of his stomach. Did Jon call him only to find the TV more interesting? 

Before he can say anything, Jon blinks and shakes himself. “Sorry. I don’t often watch television, so when I do it’s easy to get… trapped.” 

He looks so sheepish that Martin can’t be upset. He sits down next to Jon. “So what’s this about, then?”

“Biohackers.” Jon lights up, eyes bright when he turns to face Martin. “There’s this guy whose maker space had a biolab, and he used it to engineer enzymes for digesting lactose--”

Martin sits down, smiling. Jon’s an engaging storyteller, even as he occasionally loses the thread of what he’s saying mid-sentence, distracted by fatigue and the TV still being on.

Finally, he stalls out completely, eyes wide and glassy, only to turn those eyes on Martin with bewilderment. “I had something I wanted to say,” he says, plaintively.

Unbearably fond, Martin says, “Forgotten it, have you?” Jon nods mournfully. “Perhaps it’s time we helped you sleep, then? You can tell me in the morning.”

* * *

The burst of energy from explaining about hobbyist microbiologists seems to have tired Jon out. He's pliant as Martin directs him to bed. Biddable. Martin tries not to like that, and fails miserably. It's just that Jon's so unexpectedly sweet like this, blinking up at Martin, mouth slightly parted, body relaxing like just being near Martin helps him nearer sleep.

He does marshal a bit as he goes to bed. "We should do something."

"We're about to," Martin says. "Care to take off your shirt?" 

"I don't mean intercourse. Something extra." Jon gives him a very tired attempt at a glare. 

Martin has a ridiculous urge to kiss his eyebrows. "What did you have in mind?"

"I could fetch the list." Jon looks slightly more alert, and that's the opposite of what they're trying to accomplish, isn't it?

"Lie down," Martin says, and then he has a brilliant idea. "We could do begging, if you want." That can't be too bad, can it? It means he'll only be doing things Jon asks for. That's just communication.

"Alright," Jon says. He looks Martin in the eye and softly says, "Please don't hurt me."

Martin launches himself back from the bed like a rock off a trebuchet.

Jon leans up on his elbows. He still looks lovely, sleepy and mussed and bewildered. "Martin?"

"I'm sorry," Martin chokes out. He's frantically reviewing every thing he'd ever said or done to Jon, finding damning evidence everywhere. He'd held Jon down, he'd fucked him ruthlessly, he'd--

"Why are you upset?" Now _Jon_ is sounding upset, which is simply unfair. 

"I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to. I'm sorry."

Jon frowns, then his mouth twists with annoyance. He sighs. "I may," he says, "have misunderstood what you meant by begging." 

It takes another moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. Martin closes his eyes and wills his heartbeat to slow the fuck down. "What I meant," he says, for clarity's sake, "is that you should ask for what you want."

"Well, I understand that now," Jon says. "Are you going to come back here?"

Martin starts to do that, then pauses. "I don't know," he says slowly. "Are you going to ask nicely?"

Jon opens his mouth, shuts it, and then says, "Would you please come to bed?"

Maybe Martin should play harder to get, but those are difficult words to resist, coming from Jon. He sits on the edge of the bed. "You didn't take off your shirt."

Jon promptly removes it. Martin's eyes linger on his chest, bare and vulnerable; he remembers the give of soft flesh. Martin feels a pang of guilt for liking it so much, with the memory of how much he had hated his own body still vivid. 

"Touch me?" Jon asks, quietly. 

Martin struggles to hold firm. "You can do better than that."

"Please touch me."

"Better." Martin takes Jon's hand in his. "There. I'm touching you."

Jon glares. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Be more specific, then," Martin counters. 

Jon lets out an affronted breath. "Please touch my breasts."

Arousal slams into Martin like a freight train. "You like that," he says dumbly, as though Jon didn't explicitly say so the very first time they did that.

"I do." Jon looks at him. "Please?" Martin softly molds his hand to Jon's breast. "Ah, a little harder? Please?" He _squeaks_ when Martin squeezes. It's adorable. 

Martin continues, engrossed in his task, until Jon asks, "Would you please bite me there?"

"Where?" Martin says, enjoying himself entirely too much. 

"My breasts. Bite them. Please."

By some unknown reserve of willpower, Martin holds back. "Tell me how much you want it."

When Jon speaks, his voice comes out very small. "I do want it. I want it very much."

That's about as much as Martin can take. He pushes Jon down to the bed and sets his teeth into the soft swell of his chest, clenching down hard to hear Jon's breathy encouragement, sucks on one brown nipple until it's slick and hard on his tongue. He wants to fuck Jon now, but he's holding back. 

Finally Jon whimpers. "I'm so tired. Please fuck me."

That feels like being dunked in a bucket of ice water. Oh, Martin's here having fun, and meanwhile Jon is doing everything he can think of just to get a decent night's sleep.

It's a good thing Martin's cock doesn't require his brain's input to stay hard. He takes off the rest of Jon's clothes and situates himself for fucking. 

Jon's arms and legs wrap around him, clinging. Jon falls asleep as Martin works at him, and Martin hopes that's enough to be forgiven. 

Even as guilty as he feels, he can't help enjoying Jon in his arms, lax with trust Martin doesn't deserve. He can't help the low thrum of arousal every time he sees Jon's small breasts move as he breathes.

* * *

He wakes up at dawn, like he usually does, and goes to raid the contents of Jon's refrigerator in search of breakfast. Jon eventually smells the food and comes wandering to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes blearily. His hair is a disheveled mess. Martin presses a kiss to it, absent minded, as he puts a full plate in front of Jon. 

"I thought that went well," Jon says, breaking the silence.

Martin looks up at him. "You did?" he blurts. 

Jon nods decisively. "I slept well. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. I'd say everything is going swimmingly."

"Sure," Martin says faintly. "Swimmingly."

Jon grunts and returns to his breakfast.

* * *

Jon spends a lot of time working in the library. This is very handy for the purposes of Martin keeping an eye on him, especially as worried as he is about having hurt Jon the night before.

As the day runs on, though, he has to conclude that it rather looks like Jon is… 

Happy. It's a startling enough conclusion, but he can't deny the smoothness of Jon's brow, the bright focus in his eyes, for once not fogged by fatigue.

Martin helped do that. Surely that's something, right?

* * *

Lying alone in his bed, Martin at last allows himself to think about Jon. How he'd felt, looked, reacted. 

He lets his fantasies run away into meanness. Conjures a vivid image of holding Jon down, refusing to give him anything unless he begged and begged. Martin comes to the thought of finally letting Jon have his cock after Jon's broken down in tears.

That's not what happened. Jon didn't cry yesterday. But Martin's crying now, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, desperately wondering what the hell is wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a tentative chapter count!
> 
> In this chapter:  
> \- some momentarily painful miscommunication  
> \- begging  
> \- usual mushy boundaries and bad communication  
> \- masturbation  
> \- sexual attention paid to a trans dude's non-flat chest, with trans dudes enthusiastic consent.   
> \- internalized kinkshaming  
> \- imagined crying during sex


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today!
> 
> Alternative summary for this fic, courtesy of weechlo on the magnus writers' discord:
> 
> Two trans men, one ace and prone to a lack of self-care that borders on self-harm and so little understanding of what constitutes a functional and healthy BDSM relationship that he casually breezes past being assaulted, and one with such a sheltered and minimal idea of his own kinks and sexuality that he has a hard time establishing his own boundaries without it turning into a spiral of self-hate....
> 
> Zero feet apart because they're in love.

Jon had not been this well-rested since uni.

He manages to maintain some sort of discipline and only request Martin's presence once a week. Even so, the regularity of their assignations is affecting his sleep the rest of the time, taking off the anxious edge of worrying he'll never find rest again. For the second time in Jon's life since childhood, insomnia has a known end in sight.

After admitting to Martin during one breakfast that Jon does not always remember to eat dinner - or lunch, for that matter - Martin has asked Jon to let him know in advance when his assistance would be wanted. "For scheduling reasons," Martin had said.

He'd proceeded to call Jon three hours before their intended meeting and ask if he'd eaten anything. Offered to make dinner himself. 

Jon would object - should probably object - but he's fallen into the habit of listening to Martin, and he is a much better cook than Jon. 

It’s… nice. Jon needs a bit of time to digest between dinner and sex, so they often find themselves sat on the sofa together. Jon likes jamming his feet, which are always cold, under Martin’s soft thighs. Sometimes they read, sometimes they watch television, sometimes they’re on their phones. Quiet, undemanding time. 

As time wears on, Jon is only getting firmer in his opinion that keeping this arrangement with Martin ticking is crucial. Essential to Jon’s well-being.

* * *

Martin feels like he’s losing his fucking mind.

He feels like he’s three people at once, trying to cram all of them into one person’s skin. There’s the guy he is at work, friendly and polite. There’s the guy who wrecks Jon and then goes home and cries about it. And there’s the guy who shows up at Jon’s flat, and makes him dinner, and even manages to cuddle him on the sofa a little bit before guy #2 shows up. 

It’s surreal. He has to walk around at work and remember what it felt like to have his entire hand inside Jon’s body without hyperventilating. How is anyone meant to do that?

(It was Jon’s face that really got him, though, those focused, dark, dark eyes… But then he could also bend and give Jon’s dick a little lick and feel him spasm from the inside. How is he meant to cope with that?)

Every time he comes over, Jon seems to have some new trick up his sleeve, something else he’d like to try. Martin does what Jon tells him, goes home to have blinding and extremely guilty orgasms, and feels lower than slime in the aftermath. 

He’d think that would be the worst part, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow the worst part comes around 2AM, where he rolls over in bed and realizes he wants Jon next to him. That, in itself, hurts, but the genuinely awful bit is that, in the middle of the night, it feels plausible. Like something he could have, maybe. Something he could work up to deserving one day. 

Then morning comes.

He can’t keep doing this. Can’t bear to stop. He’s hurtling rapidly toward disaster, and he has no idea how to slow the fuck down.

He may as well commit to going full steam ahead.

* * *

“Can I ask you something?” Martin says over a beer.

“Shoot.” Tim makes finger-guns at him. 

“I need to learn how to do some things safely,” Martin forces out. “Rope things, I mean.” The words are so thick with guilt it feels like they should have a physical form hanging in the air.

Tim looks up and frowns. “Is this for the guy who sprang kinky sex on you?”

“We talked about it,” Martin says defensively. “He said he wouldn’t do it again.”

Tim looks him over, unusually serious. “You’re not sounding too happy about that.”

Oh, God. How is Martin meant to explain? “I do want to do it,” he says, quietly. He’s certainly fantasized about it often enough. “But I’m afraid of hurting him.”

Tim’s expression softens. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find some tutorials,” he says. “Here, I’ll look some up for you.”

Feeling wobbly, all Martin can say is, “Thank you.”

* * *

The list of links Tim ends up sending is helpful: what kind of rope to buy and where, risks, body parts to avoid and some other tips of anatomy, basic ties to master. Martin watches videos with headphones on, volume as low as he can have it while still hearing anything.

He doesn’t remember every act Jon mentioned when they were going down that awful list, but he remembers rope featured. Jon is very likely to bring this up, and soon. Martin wants to be prepared when he does. 

Almost every day he catches glimpses of Jon around the library, or the rest of the Institute. Sees him talking to Tim or Sasha, his other friend among the researchers. Tries not to obsess too much on the liveliness of Jon’s movements, on how thin he looks, on the straightness of his posture. 

Even so, on the days after they meet, Jon looks better. Martin may hate what he’s doing to Jon - that he wants to do it at all, let alone as much as he does - but there’s no denying that Jon’s blooming under the attention.

Imagine how well he’d be doing if he had a sex partner who didn’t want obscene, disgusting things from him.

Martin shakes himself. He’s the partner Jon has. He knows already that if Jon offers to let him tie up those slender wrists, he’ll have a hard time saying no. Might as well do it safe and careful. Lay the ropes around Jon like a hug, let them cradle him to sleep. 

When he thinks about it like that, it sounds almost benevolent. For a few scant seconds, he can almost feel okay with himself. 

"If you did this part right," says the tutorial, and a soft gasp sounds, "you'll hear it from your sub."

Martin lowers his head to the desk and resists the urge to bang it. Who the fuck is he kidding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- fisting  
> \- preparation for rope bondage  
> \- shitload of internalized kinkshaming
> 
> disclaimer: people all react differently to kink, and no one response to a particular kink act is correct.


	9. Chapter 9

Jon waits until he’s home from work to call Martin. Calling from the office would be hardly appropriate. If it means he leaves early on days when he’d like Martin’s attention, then so be it. 

Martin’s voice sounds funny when he picks up the phone. “Jon?”

“Yes.” Jon hesitates. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” Martin says, then blows his nose. “Allergies, ‘s all.”

“You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling well,” Jon says. He’s rather surprised at the words when they come out, even as anxiety widens a pit in his gut. If not today, when will Martin next be available? Who knows how long it will be? But of course Martin’s wellbeing comes first. 

Martin blows his nose again. “‘M fine. I’ll be by in an hour to make dinner?” He barely waits for Jon’s assent to hang up. 

Jon stares at his silent phone, and shakes his head. Martin’s a grown man. Jon has to trust him to make those decisions for himself.

* * *

“Oh my God,” Jon says when he opens the door. “What happened to you?”

Martin’s eyes are nearly swollen shut. He looks like he’s barely carrying himself. “Told you. Allergies. Sorry, ‘M not a pretty sight at the moment, aren’t I? I’ll go.”

“You just got here.” Jon is about to grab Martin by the wrist when he remembers he probably shouldn’t do that. “Please come in,” he says instead, although he’s not sure that’s any kinder. 

Martin does follow him inside, so that’s that. 

Jon herds him to the sofa. “I’ll order. Thai okay?” Martin nods. “Don’t you have anything you can take for allergies?”

Martin shifts, uncomfortable. “It makes me fall asleep.”

“So fall asleep.” Jon cannot believe this man. “I have a bed, you know. You’ve used it often enough.” He thinks Martin might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell with the red stuffiness of Martin’s face all over. “You really didn’t have to come over. But now you’re here,” he adds, before Martin can get any brilliant ideas about braving the tube in his current state, “you may as well sleep over.” 

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. What do you want me to get you?” Jon preemptively puts his feet in Martin’s lap, to keep him from leaving before they made their order. He keeps them there after. Martin’s nice to lean on. Cosy. 

A horrifying thought strikes. “What are you allergic to?” If Martin ran into an allergen in Jon’s house, it could be disastrous. 

Martin shakes his head. “‘S seasonal. Pollen, I don’t know.” 

Jon nods. “You know, there’s been a problem with municipal authorities planting too many male trees and too few female trees, that could be making it worse?”

He talks for a few moments before realizing the pleasant sensation he’s feeling is Martin rubbing his feet. 

“Is everything alright?” Martin asks. He looks down at his hands. “Oh. Sorry. Should have asked first.”

“I didn’t ask before putting my feet on you,” Jon points out. “You don’t need permission to rub my feet, that’s ridiculous.”

“What if you hate having your feet touched? Or if you’re really ticklish?” Martin argues. “Some people are.”

Jon squints at him. “But I’m not.”

“But you could be! Or you could have a foot injury I couldn’t see.” Martin flails a bit. “I shouldn’t assume, is the point.” 

“Okay. But right now you’re not assuming, since I’ve told you. I’m not ticklish, I’m not injured, go ahead.”

It takes Jon a minute to realize that Martin is giving him a sad look. “But you didn’t say you liked it, either. It’s not about you not having a reason to object, it’s about you only doing what you want.”

Jon looks down and mumbles, “I like it.”

Martin frowns. “What?”

“I like it!” Jon says, maybe a bit too loud. He stiffens in his seat. “Is that the door? Could be the food.” He hastens away from the sofa before Martin could point out that there’s no way their dinner could be ready yet, let alone delivered.

* * *

"I could still--" Martin says as they approach Jon's bed after dinner.

"You will take your medication and go to sleep," Jon says firmly. 

Martin must truly be exhausted, because he doesn't argue further. Just to be sure, though, as soon as Martin lies down after downing two pills, Jon lies on top of him. Usually Martin could pick him up and put him down elsewhere with ease, but he looks as weak as a kitten right now. 

Martin's hands settle on him, light and gentle, one on the back of Jon's head and one on his ribcage. 

"I could," Martin says, but the end of the sentence is lost to incoherent mumbles. 

Jon gives it a few minutes. Once he's sure Martin's asleep, he can get off him and get some work done.

Minutes pass. Jon stays put.

It's nice like this, that's all, closing his eyes. Martin smells, not just like soap, but like himself, a warm animal scent that Jon wants in the back of his mouth. Martin's hands are heavy and soft, keeping Jon anchored. Jon should offer to suck on his fingers, he might like that. 

Normally, on nights when Jon doesn't get fucked, his bed has all the appeal of a torture chamber. But it's not empty and cold tonight: it has an entire Martin, who, in sleep, takes up space nicely and keeps it a comfortable temperature. Even his snores are good, a human sound to keep Jon company. 

Maybe Jon won't even need to fall asleep. He could just lie here, and rest. That would be good.

* * *

Jon opens his eyes and blinks. There is sunlight in his face. He feels adequately refreshed. 

Behind him, Martin's still snoring. They must have shifted in the night, since Martin is spooning him, warmth solidly pressed against Jon's back.

It's very nice but Jon has urgent matters of biology to attend to. He squirms out of Martin's grasp. 

He comes back to find Martin in the process of waking up, running his eyes and yawning. The urge Jon feels to get back into bed with him, for nothing more than continued cuddles, is startlingly powerful. 

Martin sets eyes on Jon and groans. "Ugh, did you get any sleep at all?"

It's too early for anything but honesty. "Slept through the night," Jon says. 

Martin blinks. Then a slow smile spreads across his face, starting from the eyes and then reaching the mouth. "That's wonderful to hear." 

Words flee. Jon nods, speechless. 

Martin looks so happy. Jon had put that look on Martin's face by doing nothing more than being well rested. 

Then Martin glances at Jon's alarm clock, and grimaces. "Oh, crap." He swiftly gets up. "Sorry, can't stay, got early work today. I should have said something yesterday but I was all addled. Wasn't thinking properly."

"It's not your fault," Jon says faintly, watching Martin put his jumper on. 

Martin pauses. "I really am sorry I can't stay."

Jon abruptly has no patience for this. "It's fine. Go."

He watches Martin shut the door behind him and feels something inside him tear. 

He remembers watching Georgie leave their flat each morning, knowing that she's taking half his heart with her, but trusting she'll bring it back at the end of the day. Remembers arguments and shouting and an emptiness in their wake that he'd never learned to patch. 

Georgie and he never had sex. Never wanted or needed to. But when she was gone, Jon did what he had to to fill up all that space that he now had to occupy on his own. 

A space that's now taken on Martin's shape and scent and name. 

It's possible that Jon has fucked up very, very badly.


	10. Chapter 10

Martin only notices he’s whistling because Eileen, the head librarian, raises an eyebrow at him. He stops, sheepish, but he keeps smiling. 

The hay fever was gone when he’d woken up, as though he’d never had it, much more effectively than Martin’s allergy meds usually are. He supposes it’s down to the power of a good night’s sleep. The hay fever struck earlier than usual this year, too, so it’s only fair that it disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared.

If he has extremely silly daydreams about Jon’s company curing him, well, that’s between him and his journal. 

No wonder he's a little giddy, considering last night. Finally they found the perfect solution. If all Jon needs to fall asleep is a good cuddle, Martin is more than happy to oblige. 

If a part of him mourns the other things he and Jon have done, well, that part is better stomped flat and hidden under the cellar floor. 

It's a small enough part, anyway. He's just feeling too upbeat this morning, pleased with this new solution and content from Jon spending the night in his arms.

He can't wait to explain this flawless new plan to Jon.

* * *

Jon's forehead furrows as he stares at Martin. "Why?" he asks, sounding highly sceptical. 

Martin wasn't expecting resistance. "I mean. Wouldn't that be better?"

"Not having sex?" Jon's nose wrinkles as well. "I still require sleep, you know."

"Right, but you can fall asleep just as well cuddling, can't you? Problem solved."

"There was a problem?" Jon sounds lost, a little anxious. "You didn't like the sex?"

"I did! I just-- you-- um." Martin stumbles over his own tongue trying to answer. "Wouldn't it be better if we didn't have to do that?"

"Better for whom?" Jon demands.

"For everyone!" Martin flails. "You don't have to have sex, and I don't feel like I'm making you."

Slowly, Jon says, "You weren't making me."

"Sleep deprivation is a form of torture," Martin says flatly. "Choosing sex over that counts as under duress." Why is Jon so resistant to this idea? A horrible possibility insinuates itself. "If you don't like cuddling me--"

"I do!" Jon says, hurriedly. "Cuddling you is fine. I just… I don't understand." He gives Martin a plaintive look. "What we've been doing has worked fine. Why would we want to risk failure when we have an effective process in place?"

Martin has no idea how to respond today. He keeps staring at Jon, who stares back with wide eyes, starting to look _hurt_ , of all the damned things. 

Abruptly, he can’t deal with this anymore. “I’m sorry. I-- I need to, I have to.” He gets up to his feet and starts in the direction of the door. “Can we talk tomorrow? I need--” A cold shower. A lobotomy. “Some time to think.”

“Of course,” Jon says, and if it sounds small and lost, Martin figures that’s a small thing to add to his ever-increasing pile of guilt fodder.

* * *

The data collection was an accident. Mostly.

Jon is not an expert on human body language. Martin, though, is remarkably easy to read, if at times almost impossible to understand: there is a direct correlation between the intensity of his blush when Jon offers an activity and how hard Jon gets fucked in the aftermath. Empirical evidence is very clear. 

At first, Jon wrote down only the bits Martin clearly hated, the ones whose very mention made him flinch away like a scalded cat. A spreadsheet with knives, fire, and piss, all marked in red, and a darker red for “begging (negative action)”. But then it made sense to add “begging (positive action)” in green, and he kept going from there.

“Pinning down” gets a yellow square, since Jon still hasn’t entirely figured out why Martin responded to that so harshly. “Toy (large)” gets another green square.

It just seems so sparse, so Jon keeps adding data as he discovers it.

“Hair pulling” is green. Martin likes to wind his fingers in Jon’s hair, anyway, and with every pull he’d _shoved_ into Jon, hard and satisfying. “Playing with my chest” is green, too. Anal, when they get to that again, makes another green one. Same for eating Jon out. 

Fisting is the first dark green square. Took a while to work up to, but it was worth it. Martin had panted like a racehorse and left bite marks on Jon’s shoulder that bruised very nicely. 

(Another advantage of calling Martin only once a week was that the bruises, if Jon had any, had time to heal. He suspects Martin would have hysterics again if he saw them.) 

One result of the data collection is that Jon notices as they tick off, one by one, the kinks Martin had approved of in their initial conversation. Jon looks at the dwindling list, and considers. 

The kinks left are ropes, whipped cream, and rimming. Jon eyes them doubtfully. 

When he’d last tried ropes, he’d lost feeling in his left hand for an hour, which was a bit distressing and hindered him in falling asleep. Perhaps he isn’t meant for that. Whipped cream, as minor as it is, makes Jon want to gag - any food in the bedroom feels intensely and annoyingly unpleasant. He’d have to wash the sheets. Rimming, now that Jon is looking at it, could go either way - and he doesn’t like the idea of sticking his face in someone’s bum, either. 

Maybe Jon’s just getting spoiled, now. He’d certainly done much worse than any of these things. In the wake of Martin’s last outburst, more than ever, Jon has to be sure the next choice he makes keeps Martin interested. 

But if he is spoiled, then that’s the situation and he must deal with it. Jon needs advice.

* * *

Jon is pretty sure Tim’s hung over, what with the way he’s sprawled across his desk in a particularly despondent way. Jon doesn’t approve, but he’s here to ask for advice. Again. He doesn’t remark on it. “Tim?”

Head still pillowed on one arm, Tim raises a hand with his index finger lifted: _wait_. He then sends that same hand rummaging through his desk drawers until Jon is shifting with discomfort.

“Tim…?” he ventures after surely five minutes must have passed.

At that moment, Tim finds what he looked for. It’s a square piece of thin red cardboard, and Tim brandishes it like a sign. It says, _Talk to him_.

Jon blinks, flummoxed. “I didn’t even ask the question.”

Tim groans. Muffled, he says, “Is it a work problem?”

“No,” Jon admits. 

“Did an appliance break down?”

“No.”

Tim wiggles the sign up and down a tad more aggressively than Jon feels is warranted. 

Jon walks away, deep in thought. Right. He’ll need to talk to Martin. Sit him down with another list of limits, when that’s gone so well the first time - Martin had been obviously upset and exhausted by it. When Martin in fact ran away the last time they tried to have a discussion. 

Fine. Rope it is.

* * *

Martin is used to the burst of arousal that hits him when Jon calls, a conditioned response. He is not prepared, however, for Jon to open the conversation with, “You should come over and tie me up.” 

Martin makes some garbled sounds that barely pretend to be words. His mind whirs frantically. He can see it, all too vividly, Jon’s face and hands superimposing those of the models in the tutorials he’d watched. 

“Martin?”

He gets a fucking hold on himself. (Not. Not a good time to think that word.) “I’m here. I heard you.” 

A short pause, and Jon sounds almost tentative when he speaks. “I have scarves you could use.”

That snaps Martin properly back into himself. “That’s not safe. I have rope. And safety shears. We could use those.” 

“Lovely,” Jon says, relief palpable in his voice. Martin twitches in additional guilt. Perhaps Jon really did worry cuddles wouldn’t be enough to make him sleep in the long term. “You’ll come, then?”

Martin shuts his eyes. “Yes. I’ll come.”

Jon doesn’t snigger at the stupid, unintentional pun before hanging up, which only makes it worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- mention of risky kink with adverse (but temporary) results


	11. Chapter 11

The rope Martin brought is really, really nice. Jon’s expectation was something coarse and scratchy; this is textured, but more like fabric than anything else. It’s purple, and the contrast with Jon’s skin tone is pleasing. 

Martin doesn’t hurry him along. If anything, Martin seems all too patient, content to let Jon sit on the sofa and examine the rope to his heart’s content. 

“What is it made of?” Jon asks finally, curiosity having gotten the better of him. “It’s not like stuff I saw in hardware stores.”

“No, that’s mostly synthetics. Or jute, I guess, sometimes. This is hemp.” Martin hesitates, then adds, “Hemp, this is Jon.”

Jon laughs, taken by surprise. Martin’s sense of humor is sly, on occasion silly, and sneaks up on him when he least expects it. With some regret, he gives the rope back to Martin, reassuring himself that soon it will be wrapped around him. 

Martin tells him to take his clothes off first. "Taking them off you could be an issue, with the ropes in the way." He also herds Jon to lie down on the bed and covers him up. Jon is startled to realize he expected that to happen, didn't even worry about the chill. 

To start, Martin binds Jon's wrists together. The knot is much more elaborate than anything Jon remembers being done to him before, and Martin slips two fingers between rope and skin before seeming satisfied. Martin then loops the rope around the bedpost, which Jon expected. 

He proceeds to loop the rope over Jon's arms, a crisscrossing latticework. Jon tenses slightly, anticipating pain as his arms will be pulled together by the tightening rope.

That doesn't happen. Martin keeps the rope just tight enough that Jon feels held, secure. Martin works slowly but methodically, making hitches to keep the rope's grasp from strangling Jon. 

It takes Jon a little while to realize the soft murmur he's hearing is Martin talking to himself, and a few seconds longer to puzzle out the words.

"I'd keep you right here," Martin says, low and so soft Jon wonders if he's even hearing himself. "Just for me. And then you won't go out and tire yourself out and put yourself in danger. You'll stay here where it's safe."

The words feel like a hand stroking Jon's mind in firm, repetitive strokes. Jon's eyelids flutter shut. 

They snap open again when Martin's thumb rubs against Jon's cock. It lets him see Martin's face, flushed and intent. They make eye contact just as Martin bends to take Jon's breast in his mouth. Jon lets out a thin cry as Martin's teeth close around his nipple and Martin's thumb presses mercilessly. 

When Jon comes, instead of slipping directly into unconsciousness, he feels… odd. Like he's floating, the rope and Martin's weight alone keeping him tethered. His brain is wrapped in cotton, except it feels better than he would ever have described. 

"What do you want?" Martin asks quietly. 

Jon squirms in his bonds. He feels empty. "Your fingers. Please?"

Martin brings his fingers to Jon's mouth. For once, Jon doesn't mind the tease. Martin always made him sleep before. He can trust him enough to wait a few moments longer. He sucks on Martin's fingers.

Maybe Martin would fist him again. Jon feels open enough for it. 

In the end, Martin slips only three broad fingers into Jon. He lies at Jon's side, pressed against him, fingering Jon's mouth and cunt at the same time while Jon is helpless to do anything but take it.

His second orgasm, when it arrives, only seems to compound his strange outside-himself feeling. Jon does not mind at all. Tiredness seems to have been left behind, as have other concerns that don’t have to do with Martin’s burning gaze on him, with the press of rope and the heat of his own arousal. It’s easier to come like this, easier to let his body shudder into pleasure and release, so Jon does that a few more times.

Finally, Martin breaks the silence that had only been punctuated with Jon’s groans. “Do you want to sleep, sweetheart?”

Just like that, Jon can _see_ sleep, as simple to slip into as another orgasm. He gives Martin’s fingers a gentle nibble and hums. Martin takes his fingers out, and Jon says, “May I fall asleep?”

“Oh, love. Of course.” Martin brushes a kiss to Jon’s temple. “Go to sleep. Sweet dreams.”

That’s all it takes.

* * *

Martin wakes up with Jon in his arms, his face securely mashed into the juncture of Jon’s neck and shoulder. He does not want to let go. Nor, apparently, does Jon want him to: when he tries to disentangle himself, Jon makes a plaintive noise and fists his hands in Martin’s shirt. It’s enough to keep Martin in bed until Jon finally wakes up.

Even awake, Jon doesn’t seem to want to let Martin out of his sight. He follows Martin to the kitchen, rather than take his usual position on the sofa, and leans against the counter as Martin makes them breakfast: toast again. 

As soon as Martin’s not handling any food or appliances, Jon is back in his personal space, pressed against his back, his nose a cold spot through the back of Martin’s thin shirt. He can only awkwardly pat Jon’s hand where it has snaked around his waist. 

Once the food is ready, to Martin’s regret, Jon has returned mostly to his usual self. He sits across from Martin and focuses on his plate and cup. 

“Thank you for the orgasms,” Jon says.

Thankfully, Martin has just finished swallowing, and so only coughs a couple of times in surprise. “Um, you’re welcome,” he says. His ears feel like they’re on fire. 

“I hope yours was satisfying as well?” Jon asks.

Martin chokes on air. 

Jon hurries to pound him on the back, which isn’t in fact helpful, so it’s a few minutes before Martin can speak. “I didn’t come,” he says, once he can make words.

Jon frowns. “Why not? Was something wrong?” A hint of anxiety sneaks into his tone. 

“No, no,” Martin hastens to reassure him. “I usually wait until I’m home to, uh, do that.”

“Oh.” Jon is still frowning. “Is that what you prefer?”

Martin bites his lip. “I just don’t want to jerk off in your place after you’ve fallen asleep. It seems… like something I shouldn’t do.”

Jon takes a moment to process this. “You haven’t wanted to orgasm in my presence since we started this arrangement?”

"I did!" Martin protests. "I did want to. I do. It just felt - I don't know, like I'd be creepy to do that when you're asleep."

Jon tilts his head. "I'm not asleep now. And it's Saturday. We can take the time for you to climax." He gives Martin an expectant look.

"Alright," Martin says weakly. What else is he supposed to do?

* * *

Martin follows Jon back to the bedroom. Jon gestures at the bed, and sits on the side as Martin lowers himself to the mattress, a reversion of their usual positions. Martin settles himself, fidgeting. 

After a moment, Jon decides to take initiative. He takes off his shirt. He hadn't bothered with his binder today. "You can play with my chest if it helps."

Martin makes a weak noise. "It's okay. I'm good." Then he reaches inside his briefs and gets going. 

Jon watches with interest. He can't see much through the fabric, only the suggestion of fingers moving. Martin's face is more interesting anyway, his eyes screwed shut in effort and his lower lip between his teeth.

Soon enough Martin shudders and gasps. Jon waits to see his face relax in the aftermath.

It does not. Instead, it twists up further, and to Jon's horror, he sees water gathering in the corners of his tightly shut eyes. "Martin?"

"Sorry," Martin forces out. What comes after that is unmistakably a sob. He gets up on shaking feet and leaves the room. The sound of water running comes through the open door, along with audible hitches in Martin’s breath. 

Jon feels rooted to the spot. He needs to do something, he's sure of this. He just has no idea what. Hearing Martin cry feels like an ironic punishment from a particularly cruel mythology, the added sense of wrongness that someone is crying in the wake of a sexual encounter but instead of Jon it's his partner. 

That… makes some kind of feeling happen to Jon, but he shouldn't focus on that now. Martin is distressed. He leaves the room to find Martin standing in the living room, staring blankly. "What's wrong?" Jon asks. 

"I am," Martin says, choked. "I’m awful.” He abruptly picks up his bag and turns to the door.

“Wait!” Jon manages to blurt out. “Wait. Please.” If Martin leaves, Jon might never get him to come back. 

Martin looks at him, his expression terribly blank, but he’s not walking out yet. Jon’s going to count this as a win. “I should go. It’s better if I go.”

Jon doesn’t know how to argue with that. He changes tack. “Then promise me you’ll come back.”

Martin’s nod is as slow as tectonic plates shifting, but he gives it before he leaves. Jon clutches to that, lacking anything else to hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- bit of a cliffhanger, sorry  
> \- dom drop: the reckoning  
> \- rope bondage  
> \- crying and self-loathing (martin's)


	12. Chapter 12

In the absence of anything concrete to do, Jon paces. 

There are facts. As disconnected as it all seems, there must be an underlying explanation for everything that happened. Jon just needs to find it. He stops, takes a deep breath, and gets a sheet of paper. 

Right. Fact: Martin started crying after orgasm. What could have caused that? Jon considers. What happened just prior to it? He’d taken off his shirt. Jon casts a doubtful look downwards. Martin always seemed to like his chest. He doesn’t see why that should make Martin cry.

Hm. Martin had been worried about the acts he wanted, hadn’t he? He’d said something to that effect before they first discussed kinks. That he’d hurt Jon somehow. But Jon had been fine, so that’s no explanation. 

Huffing in exasperation, Jon sits down and pulls out his phone. He googles, _partner started crying after a scene._

To his surprise, the first link seems relevant. He clicks it. He reads. He frowns. 

He opens another tab and googles “Dom drop”. He reads more, then stares blankly in the air. 

This is bad. This is very, very bad, and Jon has let it get to this point. He carefully considers his options. 

He could cut off contact with Martin. But there were the following issues to mind: that Martin would likely chalk that up to Jon hating him and thinking he’s immoral, and also, that Jon really doesn’t want to. Scratch that.

He absolutely couldn’t keep going as they were. That’s not an option. He’s not going to hurt Martin on purpose, that’s horrible. Just the thought makes him want to contract into a tiny ball and shrivel away. 

Which leaves… what, exactly? He recalls Tim’s _Talk to him_ sign. Right, obviously, but what does he _say_? 

He looks at his phone in dismay. On all of Jon’s performance reviews, the head researcher admonished him to ask for help more and earlier on. Maybe it’s time he took that advice. 

Falling deep into concentration, he composes a message to Tim.

* * *

The half hour until Tim responds is perfectly miserable. Jon jumps at every sound, terrified of it being his phone, deeply disappointed when it’s not.

When finally his phone does sound, it’s his ringtone, not his message chime. Jon picks up. “Hello?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been fucking Martin,” Tim says. His voice is rough from sleep. 

Jon blinks. “Alright, I won’t.” He mentally reviews the message. He’s pretty sure he never mentioned Martin’s name, but Tim is perceptive. Perhaps he noticed something Jon hasn’t.

Tim groans. “For fuck’s sake. Really? _Really_?”

Despite himself, Jon bristles. “I understand I haven’t acted correctly. As soon as I realized, I sought to make amends and get advice to do better. If you don’t want to give it--” He’s interrupted by Tim’s laughter. “I don’t see what’s funny.”

“No, you’re right. I mean, it is funny, in a fucked up way. All this time you’ve been right under my nose.... But nevermind that,” Tim says, sobering. “So you figured out Martin’s been dropping all this time. Good job, wish I’d noticed it myself.”

Jon makes a frustrated noise. “A good job would have meant preventing that from happening.” He shakes his head. “I _hurt him_. That’s not okay.”

“Well, now you know how he feels,” Tim says.

Jon is brought up short. “What? But he’s never hurt me.”

Tim sounds oddly serious saying, “Didn’t he? Wasn’t there ever a risk? Think carefully. Don’t compare him to whatever shitty history you had. If it was someone you cared about in those situations, in your place, wasn’t there ever a place where you’d say, that’s not okay?”

Despite himself, Jon takes a moment to think. Remember. “There really wasn’t.” He struggles to consider. “Whenever I asked for something, he gave it. He never did anything I didn’t want.”

“Okay, but did he know that? Is it possible he ever forgot to ask, and you were into it, but you could have not been?”

A memory occurs to Jon of Martin teasing him in the scene, giving him fingers to suck on instead of fucking him with them. Shutting his mouth in the process. “Maybe? But when I wanted to say something, I did, and he listened. Doesn’t he trust me?”

For a moment, Tim’s silent. “I’d say it’s a question of trusting himself. And worrying you might not have a very good basis of comparison.”

This reminds Jon. “My history wasn’t that shitty.”

“Jon.” Tim’s tone is sharp in a way Jon doesn’t ever remember hearing. “Someone cut you with a knife without your permission. People go to _jail_ for that.” 

Jon squirms. “That was one time.”

“That’s one time too many! Not to mention everything else you said. Fuck. I never knew things got so bad for you.” Tim exhales. ”Why didn’t you ever come to me? I’m a fantastic fuck buddy, I have references. No, wait, sorry. I do wish you’d felt comfortable telling me, though.”

Uncomfortable, Jon shrugs. “It’s not the kind of topic I talk about. And I really think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Am I?” Now he can’t read Tim’s voice at all. “If it were Martin, getting knifed because he was so desperate to sleep he’d do anything, would that feel out of proportion?” 

The image arrives in Jon’s mind immediately. Martin’s face, contorted with the fear he remembers, with the pain. “No.” His voice sounds small to him, inadequate. Unlike his past partners, Martin never made him want to cry. He wants to cry now, just thinking about this horrible idea Tim brought up. “I suppose your response is correct, then.” Even if it doesn’t add up at all, this idea that his suffering is somehow equivalent to Martin’s, he supposes it must be. 

“Jon,” Tim says softly. “You deserve to get sleep without anyone hurting you. Without doing anything you don’t want.”

There’s a lump in Jon’s throat and his eyes prickle. He’s about to snap something about not having that option, but he _does_. “What if Martin never wants me again?” No, that’s the wrong question. “What if I can’t get him to come back without hurting him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, isn’t it?” Tim asks. “How to keep him from getting hurt.”

“Right. Right.” Jon takes a deep breath. “So - he’s afraid of hurting me. But he hasn’t, and I don’t think he will. How do I make him believe that?”

Tim hums thoughtfully. “There’s a bunch of different advice. If he does aftercare for you, that could help him, too.”

Jon reflects on cuddles and breakfasts past. “I think he’s been doing that already.”

“Okay. Maybe tell him how much you liked what you did?”

That seems straightforward enough. Except, “But what if he doesn’t believe me?”

Tim exhales. “That is a problem, yeah. I don’t know. If I had a partner who said it wasn’t so bad when someone put out cigarettes on them, I don’t know if I’d take their word that I wasn’t hurting them.”

“Nobody’s done that to me,” Jon feels compelled to point out. He’s pretty sure he would have objected to that.

“It’s just an example, don’t get all wound up. But you see my point?”

Reluctantly, Jon agrees. “What do I do?”

“I hate to repeat myself,” Tim says, “but have you considered talking to him, now that you’re on the same page? Well,” he amends, “that might be overstating it a bit. In the same book, at least.”

It doesn’t seem like there’s an alternative. “I will,” Jon says. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by keeping my buddies safe. That includes you.” Tim hangs up.

* * *

Martin isn’t surprised when his phone rings. He is a little surprised, to the extent that he can feel anything beside burning shame right now, to see Tim’s number. He picks up. “Hello?”

“Did you know you were having dom drop for the last few weeks?” Tim demands.

Martin blinks. “Did I know what, now?”

“Jon spilled the beans,” Tim says crisply. “You could’ve said he was your mysterious three months stand. But nevermind that! I gather you’ve been moping because you feel you’re a terrible person.”

Martin’s eyes are dry. He feels like already cried out all the moisture in his body. “If he told you everything, don’t you think I am?”

Tim sighs. “I think,” he says, “that I can’t say you’ve had a communications breakdown, since that would necessitate communicating in the first place. So both of you fucked up on that front.”

Martin hunches. “Sorry.”

Tim’s voice is soft when he says, “Hey, no. You made some mistakes, maybe, but Jon doesn’t think you ever meant to hurt him, and I don’t either.”

Martin snorts. “Intention doesn’t mean shit if I hurt him.”

“Actually I think it does,” Tim says. “There’s a difference between stepping on someone’s foot by accident and doing it on purpose. There’s also a difference between stepping on someone’s foot and stabbing them. You’re still in ‘stepping on feet’ territory.”

Rubbing at his eyes, Martin sighs. “Okay, thanks. Is that what you wanted to say?”

“I wanted to check on you, because I just found out you’ve been marinating in misery for weeks! You’re my friend, Martin, I want to help if I can.”

“Oh.” Martin blinks. That should not surprise him, given how much Tim has helped already, but still. “Thank you.” The words come out more genuinely this time. 

Tim lets out a long breath. “Look, Jon said he’ll talk to you later. He said you haven’t been hurting him, and I believe him. I hope you guys can figure this out, so I don’t have to lock you up in a broom closet until you communicate.”

“That’s not funny,” Martin protests weakly.

“Who’s laughing?” Tim says. “Until then, can I help? Do you need anything from me?”

Martin hesitates. Part of him wants to open up everything they’ve done to Tim’s scrutiny, ask for his approval. But he isn’t the person whose approval Martin needs. “I’ll talk to Jon. We’ll try to make it work.”

“That’s the spirit,” Tim says approvingly. “I’m going back to sleep for another three hours. Bye!”

It takes another ten minutes of staring at his now silent phone for Martin to gather up the courage to text Jon, _can we meet tonight?_

Jon’s reply is instantaneous. _Of course. Whenever you want._

Martin shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to slow down his runaway heart. Then he texts an hour, which Jon accepts with the same alarming rapidness. 

_Jon says I didn’t hurt him,_ he tells himself, lying back on the sofa. The words feel thin and frail, unconvincing. He curls onto his side, guiltily clinging to the memory of Jon asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Jon's shitty history and terrible self preservation, also complete lack of self-regard  
> \- Tim continues not to be an absolute authority on consent and communication, but he's miles better than what they've been doing


	13. Chapter 13

Jon waits for Martin with his flat door open, having buzzed him in. Martin follows him inside and sits on the sofa. It’s weird, how many memories he has attached to this sofa. How little he wants to leave those behind.

Jon watches him with dark, anxious eyes, like any moment Martin could disappear. 

Before Martin can think of anything to say, Jon opens with, “I need your help. I don’t know how to fix this.”

Helpless affection bubbles up in Martin. Jon just sounds so _earnest._ “We’ll figure something out,” he says, with more confidence than he feels. They have to try, don’t they? Since they both want this.

Well. Martin wants this. Jon wants to sleep, and can Martin fault him? No, he can’t. And neither would it be fair of him to put up demands. This has to be on Jon’s terms. Nothing else would be decent. 

In service of this, Martin asks, “What do you want?”

Jon glares at him balefully. “World peace,” he mutters.

Martin is surprised into giggles. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t!” Jon raises his arms like he’s pleading with the ceiling. “I never know what you mean! That’s the whole problem we’ve been having!”

“From this,” _don’t say relationship_ , “arrangement. From me. What do you want me to do, or not do?”

Jon lets his arms fall, and his looks turns anguished. “If I tell you, will you just agree to whatever I say?”

“What’s so bad about that?”

Jon stares at him like he cannot believe Martin said something this stupid. “How would you feel if _I_ did that?”

Okay, fair, but-- “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? You--” a lump is forming in Martin’s throat. He coughs to speak anyway. “All those things you offered to do, to let me do. You never said what you _liked_.”

Jon turns his face away. “Alright. I take your point. How about we both say what we want, and then do what’s in the overlap? We could both write it down at the same time, so we’re not tempted to, ah, cheat.” His fingers twine together and separate, toying with each other.

He’s fidgeting. Jon very rarely fidgets. 

Martin narrows his eyes. “Jon. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t want to prejudice your input.” Jon meets his gaze, then, steady. “I’ll write that down, too,” he says softly. “I’ll write down everything, even the parts that might scare you away. Even the parts that frighten me. But you have to promise to do the same.”

Under the solemnity of Jon’s expression, Martin can say nothing beside, “Alright.”

* * *

Jon goes into the bedroom to write. There’s no blank paper in the flat, so they’re both forced to write in their phones’ notes applications. 

Martin stares at the blank screen and wills words to happen.

How is he meant to do this? Is he supposed to make a list of all the awful, wonderful things he wants to do to Jon, for Jon to pick his way through and see what’s not too bad? 

He takes a deep breath, trying to summon the words Jon said just moments ago. _We’re saying what we want. Just that. If the other person doesn’t want the same, then we don’t do that. Simple._

Simple. Ha. 

_I want_ , he starts, then deletes the words. Then he types them anew. _I want,_

How does he put the enormity of what he feels into words? This isn’t the kind of poet he is, to find a way to say the unspeakable. 

But he has to be honest. He promised.

_I want anything you’ll give me._

He frowns at the words. They’re true, but he can’t deny they’re an act of cowardice, leaving the burden of decision on Jon. Detail. He needs detail. Right. 

_I want to cuddle you._ That’s certainly true. _I want to make you breakfast and kiss the top of your head and watch documentaries with you and hear you tell me about all the factual inaccuracies._

None of those statements is false, but neither are they complete. Martin takes a deep breath.

_I want to tie you up. I want to put my entire hand in you and watch you squirm._

He nearly throws his phone away after typing that. Oh, God. How can Jon even stand to be in the same flat as him? 

He _promised_. He hangs on to that. _I want to make you come, and make you fall asleep, and hold you when you do. I want to make you cry, but not because you’re sad or upset, just because I made you feel so good you can’t take it anymore. I want to make you take it anyway._

Martin puts down his phone before it falls from his nerveless hands. That’s the gist of it, anyway. Anything else would just be belabouring the point.

After a moment’s hesitation, he picks it up. _I love you, and want you to want that from me,_ he types, and despite every single atom of his being screaming at him to delete, he does not.

* * *

Jon is expressionless when he returns to the living room. He hands Martin his phone without a word. Martin takes it, and gives his own in return. Jon’s hand is trembling. So is Martin’s. 

Martin takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks down at the screen.

_In a perfect world,_ Jon’s message starts, _I would like the following:  
\- For you to continue having sex with me for the foreseeable future, in a frequency not under once a week or over once a day  
\- The sex including acts we both enjoy, that do not make you miserable, that do not include food in any capacity or me performing analingus.   
\- For you to have clothes and such at my flat, to enable staying over  
\- To continue sharing meals and my bed with you  
\- To call you my boyfriend, or some other title we both find suitable, and to be called the same by you.  
(This is a reminder that I only want this inasmuch as you do. If you don’t want any of this, I don’t want that, either.)_

Martin looks up, blinking. The light in the room seems brighter, oddly, almost hurting his eyes. “You want to date me?” He sounds wondering to himself. Disbelieving.

“You love me,” Jon says in return, voice low and raspy. He looks Martin in the eye and says, “We are both unbelieveably stupid.”

“You’re right. Christ, we’re idiots.” Martin starts laughing. It’s that or cry. But after the first few choked guffaws, Jon joins him, and it’s good. It’s so good. 

When they’ve both relaxed a little bit - and if there are tears drying on Martin’s cheek, neither of them says anything - Jon shuffles closer. He takes Martin’s hand with an intent look. “I have a request to make,” he says, formal the way only Jon can be.

Fondness swells in Martin. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jon says, eyes intent on Martin’s, hand clutching his. “I never wanted that. If I ever do that again, please tell me as soon as you can, so I can stop. Please don’t let me keep hurting you.” 

A few stray tears escape Martin’s eyes. “I-- sorry, sorry.” He wipes them with his free hand.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

There’s a dark, ugly tangle in Martin’s mind, that he’s not about to even try and unpick at this point. “You have to promise the same thing. Okay? And not just about hurting. Even if you just-- don’t like something. Tell me, okay? So I don’t do it.”

“Promise,” Jon says. “Now you.” 

It’s weirdly hard to let the words out, but he can’t really do anything else. “I promise I’ll try,” is what he eventually manages. “I won’t keep it from you on purpose.” 

“Tim said it might help if I gave you reassurances, after we have kinky sex,” Jon says, serious. “We could see if that helps.” He pokes Martin’s palm with the hand that isn’t holding it. “But you have to say if it doesn’t work. You promised.”

Martin would really rather not think about it, but, “What if it doesn’t?” 

“Then we’ll try something else. Or we’ll find someone else to help. Or we’ll take a break and just cuddle.” Jon shrugs. “There are plenty of options to try.”

Martin frowns. “Someone else, like a therapist?” He could do without a professional telling him he’s sick.

Jon nods. “Tim knows where to find some kink-friendly ones. You don’t have to,” he hurries to add. “But it might help.” 

“Right,” Martin says weakly. He looks at Jon, and suddenly the distance between them is unbearable. “Could we go to bed? Just to cuddle?”

Jon’s smile is as lovely as everything else about him. “Of course.” 

In bed, Jon slots neatly into his arms, like he belongs there. Martin never wants him to go anywhere else. He kisses the top of Jon’s head and gathers him close. Jon nuzzles Martin’s shoulder.

Martin can be brave, if this is what it gets him.


End file.
